


A Matter of Chance

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Aromantic Mycroft, Class Differences, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Gay Marriage is a Thing, Happy Ending, John is a Saint, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Period-Typical Homophobia, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Sherlock has to marry, Slow Burn, and sexually naive, between Sherlock and John, but doesn't want to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-06-27 04:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 100,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: "If it were only for me, I would never marry.""Why so?""I do not believe in love, Dr Watson. It is a great disadvantage to lose one's head over such a volatile matter."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you want a mostly light-hearted Regency AU (with a few angsty moments, because I'm the one writing it), about a lord that needs to marry and a certain army doctor becoming his friend, inexplicably leading to shameful dreams where clothes are not so necessary anymore, you are in the right place.
> 
> A few pointers before this begins: gay marriage is totally a thing. Period-typical homophobia is non-existent in this fic, apart from the fact that same-sex marriage is less desirable amongst noble people because you have to adopt/somehow produce an heir in that case.  
> About age, Sherlock is 20, and John is something like 26. If six years is too much for you, you can headcanon him younger. His age is not explicitly stated in the fic.  
> The character of Margaret Stamford is basically Molly Hooper. You may headcanon Lord Harrington as James McAvoy, I certainly do so. 
> 
> A word about the writing style: I have to admit that although I have a few on my shelves, I have never read a book written by Jane Austen. I wanted to do it before starting this fic, to get the tone right, but I lacked the time in the end. This work is betaed -- checkout Arcwin's AO3 and tumblr, she's an amazing writer! -- but there might be a few errors remaining here and there, which are entirely my fault since English is not my first language and writing in this historical style is not exactly easy. If you see anything that my characters say and should not be saying for the era they're in, or if there's something historically inaccurate, you can kindly point it out to me (by private message, please!). A big inspiration for this was the movie Becoming Jane, which was the only romance I ever loved as a teenager (and recommend, even though the romance is totally made up). You may recognize some scenes from there, but this fic doesn't follow the plot of the movie.
> 
> This is a WIP, nearly complete (I'm currently finishing writing chapter 9 on 14 or 15). I have yet to decide on an update schedule, but it might be once, or twice a week, depending on how busy I am. This is going to be more than 60k long. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_"_ _Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance."_ \- Jane Austen, _Pride and Prejudice_

_“My characters shall have, after a little bit of trouble, all that they desire.”_ – _Becoming Jane_

_Spring 1812_

The dead fox, unlike the company, proves to be a silent and interesting subject of study. 

I found it at the edge of the forest, its flank open and its insides full of maggots. It took me a few tries to safely transfer the corpse onto the wooden sledge I had brought from the barn, with the help of gloves stolen from the gardener. Sherrinford Hall at my back, with its plethora of well-dressed ladies and lords waiting for my arrival, I tugged the dead animal further into the forest, and under the roof of the old, unused hay barn. 

Now, kneeling, the hay tickling my legs through my breeches, I am cutting through the red fur in order to establish the correct time and cause of death. The first is easier to determine than the latter — that kind of maggot infestation, with a first layer of eggs, indicates that the fox has been decaying in the same place between a day or two. Anything beyond that, he would have been snagged by some other animal in the search for a meal. Unless there is something specific to this corpse that repulses any predator that might approach it. 

My fingers finally land on the probable cause of its demise, as my gloves come across a mass near its neck: dried blood, mostly covered by the animal's fur. _There_ , I think to myself, a few spots clearly depicting where a dog had planted its teeth. It is nonetheless strange, how he had let go of its prey so easily. Maybe it smelled the sickness within if sickness there is. Maybe it was called back by its owner, but even the most obedient of hounds would not have let go without a fight. 

Too concentrated upon my task, I barely notice that rain has started pouring outside of the barn until I lift my head, distracted by the sound of a branch cracking outside. 

Well, there is simply no way of getting back to Sherrinford under that kind of weather, I say to myself with a smile. Poor Mother, and the shock she will live through when the company starts to realise that I have no intention of showing myself. I can only imagine Lady Seymour's pout (which serves Mother well, I have already told her a hundred times I have no intention of marrying a woman), and Lord Wellington's short temper exploding as soon as the clock marks the first seconds of my absence. No one will be pleased, maybe apart from Lord Harrington, who has no intention of marrying my person, but secretly attends to those sorts of events in the hopes of meeting Lady Margaret, Stamford's niece, once more. Going by the numbers of plates arranged in the dining room, it is evident that Stamford has invited a second friend as well. Stamford's intentions may be good, but I have no intention of marrying whomever he brings to Sherrinford, how rich or influential that man may be.

No one imprisons Sherlock Holmes into the sanctity of marriage. He may as well try, and meet my rebuttal.

Another branch cracks outside, and this time, I recognise footsteps — I barely have the time to turn my head towards the entrance of the barn before a man stumbles inside, in a flash of red and white, evidently seeking refuge from the downpour.

Blue eyes look up to the roof of the barn, grateful for this bit of cover, as his shoulders shiver and one of his hands moves up his crossed arms, the other one holding a muddy walking stick. He swiftly checks his watch, a golden flash through his fingers. 

It takes him a moment, but when his eyes glance down again, his gaze finally meets mine. 

Red and white, of course, because he is a King's Man. A Regular. A red coat. A _soldier_.

A soldier. Here, at Sherrinford. A _soldier_!

"You are wet," my lips say, without permission from my head, and I would regret those words instantly if I were not trying to deduce everything about him.

He seems like the most readable man I have ever met, yet somehow, my thoughts only converge to the fact that he is soaked through and through from the rain, his ashy-blond hair a shade darker on his head. Soaked down to the horrible moustache adorning his upper lip, without which he would look years younger — he is surely no older than Mycroft.

He frowns, his gaze wavering between myself and the forgotten dead fox at my feet. "Who are you," he says, "and what are you doing to this fox?"

His words awaken sensible thoughts in me for the first time since he walked into the barn. "Isn't the proper way to introduce oneself first before asking another's name?"

"I will do no such thing to a potential trespasser and breaker of the law," the man warns me, his knuckles going white around his walking stick. There is something authoritative about him, not a simple soldier, then, but a man of higher rank. A man who stands up for what he believes. A brave man, in the face of the unknown. 

A reckless one, too. 

"It is as well, if you do not tell me who you are, I will. I have nothing to prove to a retired military man of higher rank, injured to the shoulder and not the leg, especially one who is also an orphan of low birth. India, was it?" I ask, a smirk on my face. "Therefore your name must be something terribly boring, _à la_ John Smith or something of that kind." 

I smile even harder as I witness him gaping at me. 

"Since I deduced who you are by no means of asking, I will do you a kindness and answer your previous question: I am Sherlock Holmes, and I do as I please." 

There is no more exquisite moment in life than when my interlocutor is struck speechless after a first introduction to me. For a moment, I brace myself, wondering if it will be fists or cane first. 

It is neither. 

"That was… amazing," the man breathes out. Then, he remembers himself: "Heaven's sake! You are Lord Holmes! And I believed you were some kind of poacher trespassing these lands. Forgive me, my lord," he adds, with a bow of his head. 

I try not to laugh in his face. "Mr Holmes, please, Lord Holmes is either my father or my brother. There is no need for such formality. And how you thought I was hunting in these breeches, that I cannot begin to understand. Is it not evident that this fox was the victim of a hound and not a hunter's bullet?"

Carefully, as if I, or the fox, are about to bite him, the soldier approaches the dead animal and comes to stand by my side. With the side of his cane, he turns the poor beast's head. "Indeed it is, I can see it now. Those kinds of maggots… It has been a day, has it not?" 

I look at him and his concentrated features, my heart fluttering in my chest. "You are not a simple soldier, are you?" 

For the first time since he entered the barn, he smiles genuinely. "You were right on every account, but one. Dr John Watson," he says, extending his free hand which I catch to shake. 

"Ha!" I nearly deduced his name as well. It seems I am getting better at this. 

We stand over the fox for a few seconds, before Dr Watson lets go of my hand. "It seems like it has stopped raining," he says. 

Has it? I look away from his face to notice the first rays of sunshine coming from the barn door. "It has," I answer, and instantly feel like a fool. I cannot hide forever, yet I do not want this conversation to draw to an end. "It would be wise to head back," I say, "before they tear out each other's throats." 

"Unless it has happened already," Dr Watson considers. "We were waiting for you in the drawing room, of course, but when it appeared that you would not show yourself, discord exploded amongst the company."

"Lord Wellington, I take it?" 

We have slowly progressed through the barn's door, where rain still drops from the wooden structure, clear and bright against the renewed sunshine. "The gentleman with darker hair? That must be him, indeed." 

"That man has no notion of self-restraint," I sigh. "But then, everyone in that room is more dreadful than the other. Walk with me, Dr Watson," I demand. It would not be appropriate for us to walk arm-in-arm, of course, but we can at least continue to converse until we reach Sherrinford. If I need more time, we can take a detour by the gardens. 

Dr Watson smiles, a playful thing, as we emerge amongst the trees. "All right," he says, "but surely you do not mean that. About the company, I mean." 

"Oh, please. You fled them as well, you must know what I am talking about. Wellington has the shortest temper a man could have, and an even shorter memory because it seems he cannot learn something out of it. Harris stutters on every single word, yet he believes himself to be the next great poet of his generation — you should read some of it, or worse, hear it. It is blander than milk diluted in water," I add, to which Dr Watson chuckles. "Lady Seymour cannot utter a sentence without incorporating a lie in it, if you were to talk to her she would certainly tell you that she has bedded half of England and its king, and that she intends for you to be the next one on her list. Then there is Harrington, whose only redeeming quality is that he is not at all interested in marrying me, since he has only eyes for Stamford's niece, a naive little thing, and nearly as boring as her uncle. I shall spare my parents from my venom, they are too old to take it anyway."

Dr Watson outright laughs at my words, as if I have amused him greatly. He is certainly the first to do so, and I look down, pleased. Why can't people be more like him?

"And where do I sit," he asks, still smiling, "in this grand scheme?" 

"You do not count," I say, simply. "Unless you plan to go on one knee and ask for my hand, for which I should gently but firmly let you down." 

He laughs, again. "I do not believe you do anything _gently_."

"Maybe so," I say, with a smile. This man already knows me. 

We are reaching the field that separates us from Sherrinford Hall, a tall shadow in front of us. Here, out in the open, the sun shines even harder, illuminating the strands on Dr Watson's head, more golden now as they dry under the heath and the sunlight. I cannot help but notice how his clothes have dried, his breeches not sticking so much to the contour of his muscled legs, his shoulders free of darker patches. Even the mud on his cane is starting to crust and fall off. 

Here, in the light, I can appreciate the soft tanning of his skin, which only confirms my earlier hypothesis of him serving in an exotic country. I imagine him for a second, in a pale waistcoat and a shirt opened at his neck, treating a patient under the Indian sun, sweat pearling on his forehead. 

If it were not for that _dreadful_ moustache!

"And so," Dr Watson finally says, as we are crossing the field, "which person in this company will you choose?" 

His tone is polite, enquiring, but I scoff at the words. "No one, obviously. If it were only for me, I would never marry." 

"Why so?" 

"I do not believe in love, Dr Watson. It is a great disadvantage to lose one's head over such a volatile matter." 

I can see, from the corner of my eye, that Dr Watson's gaze has widened considerably following my declaration.

"No, if it were for me, I would never marry. Unfortunately, my family has pressured me in a rather unequal agreement, upon which I have to find a spouse before my twenty-first birthday, next winter. Which, as you know, coincides perfectly with age of consent. Mother has given me the freedom of choice, which is more than people like me usually get, but it does not mean that I am at all interested in imprisoning myself with a fool who is bound to like me even less than I do. No, I will not take a spouse today, although I can bet you the amount of your choice that Harris will bend the knee by the end of the afternoon."

Dr Watson frowns, and just as he is about to open his mouth, a cry echoes to our ears. "Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes!" 

I turn my head to see young Billy running our way, so fast that his shoes nearly fall off his heels, his knees scratched through-and-through from the brambles he had jumped over to enter the estate. He is red in the face when he reaches us, his scrawny body heaving from the effort. 

"What is the matter, Billy?" I ask at once. It is evidently important news for him to disturb me in the presence of another man. 

He takes a moment to breathe in, and out, evidently adding a layer of drama to his little display, as children tend to do. "Dr Kent, Mr Holmes, sir, Dr Kent's sister's back at the village, and she's very ill, Mr Holmes, sir." 

My heart leaps in my chest, as I bend down to look Billy in the eye. "Billy, this is of utter importance. Can you tell me in which carriage she was taken back to the village?" 

"I dunno because I haven't seen it, Mr Holmes, sir, but Anna has, and she says it's the one with the black horses, the fancy ones, y'know, Mr Holmes, sir?" 

My eyes widen, and I cannot refrain from smiling as I glance at Dr Watson. "To the village, now!" I shout, and break into a run, only hoping that the man behind me will follow. 

***

I can see from the smile on Dr Watson's face that this little adventure has pleased him as much as it did I. As I originally concluded, he was in very good condition to run, cane lifted in one of his hands, and his shoulder certainly did not prove to be of any trouble when he tackled Jefferson Hope to the ground after we had climbed to the back of his carriage, slowing down the galloping horses. The watchman proceeded then to the official arrest, and here we are, plastered against the wall of the small post office, smiles on our faces. 

"Did ya get 'im, Mr Holmes, sir?" Billy asks, rolling one of his ankles in the sand as he always does when I am about to pay him. 

"We did," I say, as I bend down to deposit a coin in the palm of his hand. "And this is for you. Go, now, and keep your eyes open for me." 

Against my word, Billy stays planted in front of me, rolling his ankle even harder. "It's just that— Mr Holmes, sir, Anna needs new shoes, her old ones are falling apart, and—" 

I roll my eyes, fondly, before placing another coin in his hand. "This is for her role in this little adventure." 

"And here," Dr Watson adds, giving Billy yet another coin from his pocket, "for some candy." 

"Thank you!" Billy barks, nearly jumping up and down. "Thank you Mr Holmes, sir, and Mr Holmes's friend, kind sir!" he adds, before he scatters away. 

I sigh. "You should not have," I tell Dr Watson, "he will have a belly ache for days to come." 

Dr Watson laughs, and we start heading back to the Hall, much more slowly than our first time around. 

Dr Watson is the first one to break the silence, after a while. "Well, they were just proven wrong." 

I frown. "What do you mean?" 

"Back at Sherrinford, some people might have warned me against your cold exterior. Yet, now that I have just witnessed the truth, I see that it only is the _exterior_ that may seem cold." 

"Oh, please, do not fool yourself too much on my account." 

He smiles, against my words. "I do not believe that a man who gives money to poor children for new shoes is a despicable and unkind fellow." 

"Were that the exact words?" I ask, playfully, and he chuckles. 

Another pause. "Do you do this often? Help people?" 

"I do not see it as helping people as such. I am a consulting detective, which means that I see what ordinary people do not. And they come to me with interesting cases and less interesting ones, and I solve them all." 

"Really? All of them?" 

"Of course."

"That is quite astounding," he compliments, and I look down, biting the inside of my cheek. 

Dr Watson hums, his footsteps considerably lighter than they were a few hours ago. Before us, Sherrinford Hall appears in the distance. "So this is how you could tell everything about me just with a glance?" 

"Indeed," I say. "Were you not insulted by my deductions?" I ask, because I am curious. 

He chuckles. "Why should I be insulted by the simple truth? No, you were right on every account, maybe apart from the fact that I did not only serve as a soldier but as a doctor as well. I was captain of my troops, and yes, it was in India, although I first started in Egypt." 

He does not mention his injury, which must be a sensitive point to him, and so I do not raise the issue either. I must admit my interest rises when he mentions Egypt, the ancient land of knowledge and gods. I will have to ask him about it, tonight at supper, to recount every single tale he has accumulated over years of interesting travels. And to say that I have never left Sherrinford in my life, apart from those long years spent between Eton's equally high walls. I do not wish to see India, or Egypt, although I would like to, for my sole interest lies in London, a labyrinth of streets and crimes I have spent my life studying behind books and maps. A place where common people need someone like me. To say that I have never visited the City, which is mere hours away from Sherrinford! Shall I remain a prisoner of this place forever?

"Please, Mr Holmes, do tell me about how you gained all this information from a single look. I am most interested in understanding the process of your thoughts." 

I launch myself into an entire explanation of my deductive skills just as we arrive and walk through the gardens, telling him how I saw India in the tones of his skin and his injury in the tightness of his shoulders. I explain how I deduced he is an orphan from the watch he keeps by his side, with a name engraved in it but without a picture inside, the gold old and struck in a few places. 

He listens to me, intently, with more attention than anyone has ever listened to me, and does not realise, unlike me, that we have been circling the gardens for the third time now, just when another man makes himself known. 

"Mr— Mr Holmes! I see— I see that you are… back!" 

I drop on my knees with a gasp, hoping that the bushes will be enough to hide me, leaving Dr Watson standing up and quite confused about the situation. 

"Harris!" I whisper, looking up. 

Unfortunately, my poor hideaway does not give any results, as Harris joins us with his long strides. 

"Mr— Mr Holmes," he says, "are you— quite all right?" 

"I have lost something," I mumble, mimicking a search through the bushes, my hands extended in the dirt and the sand. 

With a gasp, as if I were Queen of this country, Harris plunges into the bushes, looking for whatever I may have lost that is not there.

"There is no need," I say with a sigh, as I stand up again. Beside me, I notice that Dr Watson is having a hard time to remain polite and not outright laugh at Harris's face. "Lord Harris, please," I ask of him, as he is swimming between bushes and stepping onto Mother's precious flowers, his breeches getting ripped here and there by brambles. 

"Of course— of course," he says, finally stepping out. "Dr…" 

"Watson," Dr Watson supplies. 

"Dr— Watson, would you— be so… kind… I would, well, I would, like, very much— to speak with… Mr, Mr Holmes, privately, that is. If it… is— is not, too much to… well, to ask." 

"Of course," Dr Watson says, pleasantly, although I am sure he is biting the inside of his cheek as well. "Lord Harris, Mr Holmes," he salutes us, with a smile in my direction that definitely means _good luck_. 

I will need it.

With a few steps, he disappears behind the corner of the wall, leaving me, my wearing patience, and Lord Harris alone. 

"The— the gardens are… quite, quite, quite… beautiful, this year, that is, yes, quite, quite, er, beautiful." 

Dear God. It is _worse_ when he is nervous. How can it be _worse_? Mother invites him only because he has money, but I am sure that she would be against me marrying a man who cannot speak properly. She said, in a poor defence of him, that his awkwardness makes him charming. Maybe to _some_ people, but certainly not to me.

"Not… not quite, really, not quite beautiful, as, well, as you." 

I sigh. Can he ask already, so I can say no and escape his presence?

"There is nothing, well— no _one_ , as quite… beautiful, as, er, you are, er, Mr Holmes."

"Is that so?" 

Please, do not tell me he has composed verses about it. Please, do not tell me so. 

"Ye—yes." To my absolute horror, and lack of surprise, he bends down on one knee, taking my hand in his, which is rather moist. Heavens. Someone, save me from this. "Mr— Mr Holmes, will you, maybe— maybe do the… well, the honour, of being my wi— husband, husband, of course, husband?" 

"I must refuse your offer, Lord Harris, for—" 

"Please… Please, before you… do so," he continues, as if I had not spoken at all, "I must— yes, I must— ask of you, to… to listen to these few… well, one could call them… verses." 

Dear God above!

Harris clears his throat, his hand still disgustingly sweaty. Does he ever wash? I keep my eyes straight ahead, trying to see if I can achieve entering my Mind Palace, even under such duress. 

"His— beauty… Sorry, er, I shall, er, start again." 

He clears his throat once more. 

"His… _ethereal_ … beauty, can be… compared— to, er, to the rarest… things, of his— Earth,

Such— er, such as, the wail… of a whale—" 

Harris will, unfortunately, forever go on about how his words were so strong upon my sensitive person that they were the reason I swooned after the first two lines of a poem intended to woo me, but the truth is rather less romantic than he believes. 

After shouting the gardens for his quick need of salts and a doctor, any doctor that _might_ be blessedly around Sherrinford today, I finally feel another set of hands upon my shoulders. 

"Mr Holmes?" Dr Watson's low voice reaches me. 

I open an eye. "Is he gone?" I whisper.

"Yes, I believe he went inside to fetch ice." 

"Oh, thank _God_."

Swiping the dirt away from my breeches, I stand up with Dr Watson's help, who does not ask about my condition. He knows as well as I that I had to do anything to escape this situation. 

"That was quite the serenade," he finally says, trying not to laugh. 

"Who compares a suitor to a _whale_?"

***

Later that day, Mother asks me, as she always does, to perform a piece for our kind visitors. I usually refuse, because I object to being put on such a display, and because my playing is always intended for me and for means of clearing my mind. 

But I do wonder how Dr Watson would react to this particular talent of mine, and so, when I raise my bow, in the middle of the drawing room, my eyes set on his. 

Without further wait, I draw the first note. 


	2. Chapter 2

Over the course of the next few weeks, I find myself thinking back to the incident with the fox, notably to the man whom I met that day. John Watson started occupying my mind in the strangest ways, the thought of him making its way into my brain at the most incongruous moments of the day. Notably, during my sessions in my laboratory, where it disrupted the highly scientific process of my thoughts. Every single day I found myself thinking back of his gaze upon me playing the violin, or when he had recounted such interesting stories as he was seated beside me at supper, that evening. 

Nobody had that effect on me before. It was both curious, and annoying, yet I knew that I had to forget about him altogether. Something which, I found later on, is easier said than done. 

In the meantime, Lord Wellington had unfortunately got down on one knee, after he had lured me into a spare room of the house, wishing to speak privately. That sole declaration had had a direct effect on _Mother's_ knees, which nearly gave out under faked surprised and immense joy. Lord Wellington is rich, and has a title, and thus the decision to ask for my hand was entirely his to make. 

Needless to say, I refused. His grip on my hand was getting harder and harder as I uttered the words.

This unfortunate event led to a lot of screaming on Mother's part, which is not too good for her health. When I remarked upon it, she nearly bit my head off. In her opinion, and I quote, I shall be the death of her, and even worse, of the family's estate. And to say that people find _me_ to be needlessly dramatic.

I reminded her that it is not because I had revealed long ago my natural inclination towards men that it meant I was going to marry the first that would ask. Like I had confessed to the valiant doctor, unlike matters of the mind, my interest in marriage is as high as my interest in women or children. Null. Mark these words, Mother, _null_. 

And yet, here I am, thinking of John Watson…

At the end of March, just as I was finishing a three-month-long experiment on various types of ash, Mother blesses me with good news: Lord Stamford has announced he will be holding a Spring ball at his mansion. It was customary for him and his wife to hold some kind of party celebrating the return of spring each year, mostly done in small company, but since his niece, Lady Margaret, has been of age for quite a while now, it is clear where Stamford's interest lies in inviting a gaggle of men in his own home. The more, the better. Mother would agree. Which means that if Stamford is to invite all of his friends, Dr Watson might be of the company, and that is an opportunity I simply cannot pass. 

I dress impeccably on the morning of the fatal day, putting on my most elegant clothing, with a bit of Thomas's help for certain laces, and carefully comb my hair. Fortunately enough, Stamford is our closest neighbour, so we should all arrive presentable enough.

Mother, of course, was delighted. "Who knows, Sherlock, maybe you will meet someone. Lady Stamford cannot be interested in all of them, surely, and one might be of your inclination. We never know. Look out for Lord Harrington, I was told he should be here as well. He keeps on coming back to Sherrinford, surely this must mean something."

Yes, Mother, but proximity to our neighbours, and therefore to Lady Margaret, is the only reason for that. Not that I said, but silently nodded, propping my elbow against the carriage's window. I do intend to meet someone, shall Dr Watson be of the company tonight. If not, I will do what I do best at such events: dance. People have ridiculed me for this passion before, yet I do not care. Music and dance are noble pursuits, in my mind, and if people are jealous, it is only because I am the best at it. That much for keeping a young man imprisoned in a manor, he at least learns to dance like no one else can.

I count the trees as the sky darkens towards night. As much as I do not care for Lady Margaret Stamford, and know that that feeling is reciprocal (thank God), she is the second-best dancer after me, and we usually find ourselves together on the floor by silent mutual agreement on such nights. I hope she will be willing tonight, as well.

Mother's back straightens itself as if by magic when the mansion comes in our view. It is bigger than ours, and entirely illuminated with candlelight. I can hear the rumour of conversation from here, and finally, after a few minutes, our carriage stops in front of the door. 

"Behave," she warns me.

"I always do," I say, with a flash of a grin. 

I jump out of the carriage, and hold out a hand for her, which she takes, and Father slowly follows. We climb the few stairs in silence, trepidation beating hard in my chest. 

I hand my coat to the butler as we enter the main hall, where people are already talking and drinking. My brain is assaulted with tons of information: I can see that Miss Pike is newly engaged, to a rich but impotent man. Lady Edwards is pregnant for the sixth time, and I secretly roll my eyes. Is one child not enough? My parents should definitely have stopped trying after the disaster that Mycroft is.

I leave Mother's side as I make it to the main room, on the lookout for the possible sight of a short doctor in well-worn clothes. The musicians have stopped playing, waiting for the people at the centre of the room to find a partner for the dance to begin. I rise on my toes, still searching for the good doctor, before Lady Margaret comes to find me. 

"A dance, Mr Holmes?" To say that I have known her since childhood, when she was less elegant, more childlike and boyish in both body and posture. We were never friends, per se, although we did send each other letters from time to time. She has her father's round face and jovial smile, and as I told Dr Watson already, is as kind and as boring as he is.

Since I had not found the person I was looking for, I accept her demand. 

We make it to the line of dancers, and the music starts: a quick tempo that sets a nice contredance. I close my eyes not even half-a-second, relishing this, the pure physicality, abandonment that is dance. My thoughts are centred on every single movement my body makes, and on how to make it the most elegant. I turn around Lady Margaret, and suddenly, amongst all of the people, I see no one other than Dr John Watson in conversation with Stamford. He turns his head as well, and for one moment our eyes meet: then, the dance requires me to turn left, and when I look back, Watson has returned to his lively discussion with our host. I nearly lose my balance. 

Lady Margaret's arm brushes mine: her mind is also distracted, and by no one other than Lord Harrington. It is too evident that she is sweet on him, and reciprocally so. He is a decent man, although a bit shy: if she wants something, she will have to go and ask for herself.

"Lord Harrington," I whisper to her as she turns around me, and I can hear her gasp. 

"How do you—" 

"Do not be daft, you keep glancing towards him." We separate, then again, when she is close enough: "I assure you, should you ask him for a dance, he would be amenable."

"Really?" she lets out, blushing harder than I have ever seen before. It is a bit annoying, really. A few years ago she would accompany me outside searching for subjects for my experiments, rolling up her sleeves and pulling her skirt up, and now her mind is taken by the affairs of the heart. 

"Yes, _really_ ," I insist, not mentioning Lord Harrington's entanglement with Mr Enoch last year, which did not last anyway. I am certain that he has fallen for Lady Margaret. 

She nods, and concentrates again on the dance, which makes things tremendously better for me. I have not forgotten that Watson is near, and therefore I have to give my absolute best on the floor. 

Lady Margaret and I share a grand total of two dances before I send her away (because more would be inappropriate, although I do not care about that) saying that I need to talk to someone. Which is quite right. I make my way through the people, and plant myself in front Dr Watson and Stamford without a single salutation. It takes them a moment to derail from their intense conversation to become aware of my presence.

"Heavens, Holmes!" Stamford says when he finally notices me.

Watson turns his head towards me, and meets my eyes again. He jerks his chin back a bit, and only then I realise that as much as I had given myself through the dance, I must look like the world's most ludicrous lunatic, from the red of my cheeks and the sweat gathering on my forehead. I can only hope that my hair is not too bad. 

"Mr Holmes," Dr Watson says, now with a smile that is bright enough to melt stars. "I take that the music is quite good?" 

"It is true that they are making quite the effort, tonight," I answer, glancing at Lord Stamford. Nothing less to make an impression on his niece's potential suitors. "Would you do me the honour of the next dance, Dr Watson?" 

Stamford gapes, and Watson's ears slightly flush with red. I know my declaration is quite shocking: although relationships of the same sex are allowed, they are never seen on the dance floor where parity between women and men must remain. Probably because people would be confused when asked to turn around a man, and not a woman. Imbeciles. 

"Do not worry, you can take the lead," I say to Watson, with a smirk. "I know how to dance a woman's part."

"I'm not sure that it would be a good idea, Holmes," Watson says, lips pinched. He taps his cane to the side of his leg.

"Oh please, your leg will be just fine."

"I, really—"

He looks at Stamford, who uselessly chimes in. "Really, Holmes, I would not mind, but I do not believe Lady Holmes would agree." 

It is now my turn to gape. How infuriating that man can be! Who cares about what Mother has to say? As if she does not control enough already. I look at Watson, hoping for him to save me from this situation. 

"I'm afraid my leg won't let me—" 

Without letting him finish, I understand that I am dismissed. I turn on my heels and make my way back into the crowd, searching for Lady Margaret. When I finally distinguish the brown hair bouncing on her shoulders, she already has already found a dancing partner in Lord Harrington. 

Imbeciles! All of them!

As if I have not pushed her towards him. I bite on my lower lip, my eyes moistening with the humiliation I have just been subjected to. Not far from me, a couple laughs, and I am sure I am the subject of their secretive joy. I turn again, and make my way towards the back doors. 

Once outside, the rumour of conversations vanishes. I walk until I meet the end of the outside deck. I lean against the balustrade, ruffling my hands through my hair, cursing my very own existence. 

They do not know. They do not know how infuriating it is to be the constant subject of my thoughts. They do not know how impossible it is for me to stop thinking, to stop seeing _everything_. And like the hypocrites they are, they cower at their own faults, once they are acknowledged and for everybody to see. In their stupidity, they blame me. Unlike Mycroft, I have never learned to play by their rules, because they disgust me. I cannot be dishonest. I cannot be anyone else but myself. 

They do not like me, and I know, and I do not care. But then, why is it that I am saddened by Dr Watson's rebuttal?

"Mr Holmes?" 

_Watson_. 

I turn on myself, my hands in my back, still on the balustrade, shocked to see him standing in front of me. We are alone on the balcony, illuminated by the candle glow from inside the windows. For the first time, I notice how cold it is.

He looks utterly sheepish. "I have upset you." 

I glance to the side, in need to escape this conversation. Has he realised only _now_?

"You like to dance," he says, and anyone other than him would have me absolutely enraged about how this conversation is leading nowhere.

"Yes." 

"You see, the truth is that I am not a very good dancer." 

"Have you come here only to bore me with a conversation we already _had_ , Dr Watson?"

He glances down again, but when he looks up, he directly meets my eye. "Not as such, no. I wanted to know if you would honour me with the next dance?"

I must admit that I gaped, and not elegantly so. It took me a second to muster myself, and one more to speak. "Yes, of course." 

This time, he is the one to take my arm, as we go back inside together. The previous dance has just ended, and people disperse themselves once more. He stands in front of me, his right fist clenching a bit over his bad leg, having surrendered his cane against a corner of a wall. It is only now that it strikes me as a bad idea: maybe Watson cannot physically dance… maybe this will only lead to his humiliation. 

I will not let anything bad happen to this man. 

Women join me as we spread out in two distinct lines, and for a moment, we wait for the music. I stand straight, although I can perfectly hear whispers around us, people confused as to why two men are set to dance together. Idiots. Watson's gaze never wavers, as he keeps it on me. The corner of his mouth stretches into a subtle half-smile, and I smile back. I had initially rejoiced at the thought of dancing together, only to cause disruption and make Mother break into a sweat. Now, I only care about the joy it will be bringing me, and hopefully, Dr Watson too. It takes another minute before Stamford scrambles towards the band, and ushers them to play. The piece is unnecessarily romantic, but slow enough for Watson to catch up without any trouble. 

He turns around me, imitating the other men, as I dance the woman's part. Whatever his claims about being a bad dancer were, they are unfounded: he entirely forgets about his leg once he lets the rhythm settle into his body, and if he needs a bit of help with remembering certain steps, I am never too far to take the lead for two or three beats' time.

For a reason I cannot quite put my finger on, every nerve in my body shivers when he puts his hand on the small of my back, as we follow the couple in front of us, before parting again. I never thought that dancing could be like _that_.

The music stops, leaving the air shockingly empty of sound. I stand there for a moment, cursing that this had to end. Why could they not keep on playing only a _bit_ longer?

"Would you care to dance again?" Watson asks me, coming closer. His cheeks are rosy from the effort of the last few minutes.

"Of course," I say again, as if my mouth is unable to produce any other sound.

He nods, and positions himself again. This time, the music starts without any trouble, and people return to their conversation. Shock never lasts long, in such company, or if it does, it is only to keep appearance. There is nothing wrong with what we are doing. 

We only dance two times before Watson admits that his leg is paining him. More than two would have been... most inappropriate, not that I care. I follow him back to the place where he left his cane, and we are both greeted with glasses of wine to quench our thirst. 

"See, I say," after sipping at my glass, "there is nothing wrong with your leg." 

"Maybe so, yet it still does hurt." 

"Not when you are not thinking about it." 

He smiles indulgently at me. "Your mother will not be distressed that we have danced together, will she?"

I roll my eyes. "Do not worry about her." 

"It is not her that I worry about," he replies. "You are a friend, Holmes, I would hate to see something unfortunate happening to you."

I blink. Once, or twice. Or maybe more. A friend? _Me_? 

I open my mouth, trying to think of words that can convey what I think of the situation. "I hate your moustache." The words escape before I can rein them in. Good, let's keep making a fool of myself. Shall I? And scare away the first friend I ever had two seconds after he proclaimed it. 

It is his turn to gape. "Pardon me?" 

Too late to go back. "Really, I think it is dreadful. It ages you considerably."

His shocked face does not last: he barks out a laugh, surprising me. "Heavens, you are quite an honest fellow, Holmes." 

"Do not pretend you did not already know that. And that is what friends are for, is it not?" 

"Quite, quite. Well, I do not know what to say. Is the sight of me that dreadful?" 

"Not at all. I am merely suggesting that you would look even better… without it." I wave a hand. Maybe the wine is not helping. "You ride, Dr Watson. Do you ride well?" 

The subject needed to be changed, and it is evident that Watson has spent some time working at a stable in his younger years, going by how familiar he was with our stableboy when he talked to him during his first visit at Sherrinford Hall. _All_ orphans have worked at a stable in some point in their lives. And as a soldier, most likely. This was not a difficult conclusion to make. 

"My, yes, I have a bit of experience with horses. Why do you ask?"

"We have excellent steeds at Sherrinford, thoroughbreds directly from Goldophin Arabian's line." 

Watson looks at me, like a man who has not understood a word of what I said, yet tries not to let it show. "That sounds quite impressive." 

I shake my head. Why is this so hard? I only have to get the right words out of my mouth for him to accept… but what if he should refuse? Maybe friendship does not entail him visiting Sherrinford for a second time in such a short time? Is this going too fast? What if he agrees, but only because he feels obligated, only to be bored during his second visit and regret the bourgeoning of this particular friendship?

I do not know how to proceed, for I have never had a friend before today. 

"Holmes?" Watson prompts me, seeing as I have not answered his words for… a minute, now? Or two?

I shake my head again. If this man has not shun me away after me criticising the horrible thing sitting on his face, surely he will not be horrified by what I am about to suggest. "I meant— Mycroft— my brother, his horse, well, he lives in London now… I mean, my brother lives in London, _not_ the horse, and so, if you wished to ride, sometime, well, my brother's horse is in need of a seasoned rider." Dear God. Have I become Harris, suddenly?

Watson looks down, to his glass, and when he raises his head again, there is a smile on his face. "Just to be clear… Is this an invitation?"

"Yes, yes, of course, if only—" 

Just as I am about to ask Watson his address in London to pursue further correspondence concerning that matter, I am rudely interrupted by some kind of bumbling inebriated fool, who nearly crashes his wine onto my best clothing. 

"Watson!" he roars, staggering on one leg.

Watson takes a step back, his eyes wide, before he recognises the identity of the man in question. "Lord Murray! I did not know you were attending, tonight." 

"Attending, attending," Lord Murray mumbles, "I am always attending where the wine is this good." 

Watson and I share a pointed look, before he speaks again. "I am forgetting myself. Holmes, this is Lord Charles Murray. Lord Murray, this is Sherlock Holmes." 

Not at all intending to shake the hand of a drunk, I sip at my wine, which Lord Murray does not seem to mind, for he claps my back with the force of a baby elephant, making me choke on my drink.

"Mr Holmes!" he roars, and a few heads turns around, probably wondering what I have done _this_ time. Murray tries to lean on my shoulder, but I take a step to the side, and he vacillates in thin air. Again, Watson looks at me, an apology in his eyes. "This man, this man here," he says, pointing to Watson, "he has served the King with my son! Thick as thieves, they were, Watson and Murray. The best shots in their regiment, as well, and I am speaking from experience! Although you astounded us all, just now, Watson, I did not know you were as good a dancer as a shooter!"

"Please, Lord Murray," Watson laughs, his ears flushing red. 

The rest of the discussion is mostly conducted by Watson and Murray, loudly reminiscing about his son and the army, asking for stories and details, whilst I stand on the side, sipping at my wine. There is no more dancing to be had, and people have started to go back to their quarters or to their carriages, and I still have not got a proper answer on Watson's part. 

After a few minutes, Mother appears in my field of view, trying to communicate something by shaking her head towards the door, as if she were taken by some sudden attack.

I do not excuse myself, for Watson and Murray are in deep conversation, and I mean to return to them after knowing what Mother wants. 

"Sherlock, dear, Father is waiting for us outside." 

I gape. Already? "But Mother, the night has just started." 

"Everyone is leaving," she says, looking around. "It is clear that Lady Stamford has made her choice for tonight." 

Disappointed men are a weak thing and if they must cower back to their manors to cry upon their piles of gold, so be it, but they cannot ruin this night. _My_ night!

"I do not care about that! People are still here. It is a ball, Mother, it is never supposed to end."

"Do not discuss this, Sherlock, your father is tired and waiting for us." 

I cross my arms over my chest. "Then Father can take his own carriage back to Sherrinford and I—" 

"We are leaving now, young man, and do not dare talk back to me or you are coming back on _foot_." My eyes widen under the possibility— "No, that is _not_ an option, Sherlock. Hush, now, and go join your Father, I need to bid goodbye to our hosts." 

She leaves me like that, in the middle of the room, and my gaze falls back unto Watson, who is still concentrating on whatever Murray has to say. He has entirely forgotten about me already, it seems. 

With a shrug, I leave my half-empty glass onto the nearest table, and find my way out through the remaining crowd. 

Father is sitting in the carriage, already asleep, as I take place opposite of him. On the other side of the window, ladies and lords are still talking with each other, laughing and drinking, a few new pairs separating from the rest of the crowd. The sound of them is still buzzing in my ears as I press my forehead to the cold glass, suddenly exhausted. 

Mother enters the carriage and sits in front of me, breathing heavily from the effort of going down the stairs, and I do not listen as she monologues about the other guests and our hosts. 

I want to close my eyes, and imagine again Watson conversing with me, with the easiness of a man who is well loved by all, as proven by both Stamford and Murray. It is rare that a common man makes his way through that sort of event, but nobody would refuse anything to a man who is a retired soldier, a doctor, and John Watson at once.

And of all people, he had chosen to converse with me. To dance with me.

Me, a man with a horrible reputation, for things he has not done and for others he did indeed do. Me, a man with a reputation that is held above his head like a sword of Damocles, by none other than his own brother, should he digress from the firm orders he has been given. _You obey Mother, Sherlock, you listen to her, you stop taking whatever you are taking, and above all, no more running away. Or every watchman, every policeman in London will know about what you have done, and you shall never become what you desire most, for no one will want to work with a man he cannot trust._

Watson does not know any of this, of course. He has met me like a stranger meets another, and has taken a liking to me, because of who I am. It seems to be possible, against what has been said to me.

I smile to myself, something that Mother catches, seated in front of me. "Yes, you must be pleased with yourself and your earlier little _demonstration_. It is a good thing that Stamford did not mind, or I would have made sure that you would have not stepped again into those rooms." 

"We did get Stamford's blessing, Mother, there is no need to fret." Not that I would have asked him in the first place, but he was there, and he indeed said he did not mind. 

"And whom were you dancing with, again?" 

I bite on my lower lip, my eyes on the darkened fields that separate our estate from Stamford's. 

"A friend, I believe," is my only reply. 

Mother's mouth is in a fine line, but she does not press. "Do not slump like that, Sherlock, it is inelegant," she finally says, slapping my elbow. 

"I do not care." 

"And stop sulking, for Heaven's sake."

I groan, somehow slumping even more against the window. I am in dire need of a bath, and dear God above, to undo the laces that tie this damned corset to my body. 

One cannot breathe in such a thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... apparently Regency men wearing corsets *are* a thing! They used to do it when having their portrait done, to show the curve of their lower back/accentuate their ass. Sherlock being Sherlock, he would be the kind of man to wear it to formal events to look good. And potentially impress certain doctors.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock?! Will you come downstairs, your doctor is here!"

 _My_ doctor. I smile at the words, letting the pen I was holding roll on my desk and fall onto the floor — damned be the experiment I was just working on, it can wait. She could have asked the staff to send the message, but then, Mother always wanted to be in the middle of things. I bang the door closed behind me, and slide down the handrail downstairs, like I used to do as a child, something Mother has always reproached me for.

It took me a few days to get my hand on Watson's address, before Lady Margaret had agreed to snoop around her uncle's drawer in order to retrieve it. After all, I had a favour in store since I paired her off with Lord Harrington on that very same night. Since then, I had to endure countless recounting of the moment he took her on the dance floor, stars in his eyes, etcetera etcetera etcetera. But then, I had Watson's address, so nothing could come and darken my good mood, as I waited two weeks to write to him, just to show that I might have entirely forgotten about him. I cannot appear too needy: it would be an embarrassment. He instantly agreed upon coming back at Sherrinford, at the end of the month. 

And now he is _here_.

I scold my smile into something more serious, and walk into the living room, where Watson is making conversation with Mother, apparently talking about the dreadful painting of our ancestors that has been now taking dust for decades. Watson is doing his best at faking interest, and it is clear that Mother respects him, although he did commit the terrible crime of going along with one my devious plans — dancing with me, that was. 

"Oh, Mother, please, do not bore our guest with all of that." 

They both turn to greet me; Watson's face is joyous. "Mr Holmes!" 

"Ah, Sherlock, could you—" 

I stare at Watson's face, surprised. "You shaved it!" 

"I did," he says, a smile stretching on his moustache-less face. Thank God. He _does_ look years younger. "Why are you so surprised? I do listen to my friends, especially the ones that have the best sense in fashion." 

I look down, pleased. 

"What is going on?" Mother chimes in, wondering what my devious plan is _this_ time.

"Oh, nothing," I say, before Watson can tell. Although I am sure he would not, considering the fact that Mother would think my quip on his moustache as outrageous. "I thought you were here to see the horses? Let's go, then."

He politely apologises to Mother as I leave the room, expecting him to follow. He reaches me at the door — fortunately it is quite a sunny day, although clouds are forming at the horizon — and he is still smiling. 

"I told you you would look better without it," I whisper, not looking at him but walking steadily towards the stables. 

He smiles at me, and it is oh so bright that it outshines the rays of sunshine piercing the clouds above our heads. "You, as always, were right."

I huff a pleased sound as we walk together. I dressed appropriately for the situation, adding leather chaps over breeches to avoid any chafing, and this time, there is no corset under my shirt. I wonder if Watson notices the difference. Then again, it would not have been very practical to ride in. Watson looks as handsome as ever, even though he is wearing high boots and trousers — quite the scandalous thing, they are, especially in this part of the country, but it suits him rather well. Not that I would ever tell him. Trousers! What next?! 

I enter the freshly cleaned stables and grab a saddle that I prop against my hip, along with a bridle. "There," I say, pointing the rest of the attire to Watson, "and you can take this one."

I show him to Silver, Mycroft's ten year-old gelding. "He has got quite the character," I tell Watson, "but you should not have much trouble if you have as much experience as you've said so." 

"I am up for the challenge," he answers, a smile on his face. He reaches for Silver's head, grabbing it with gentle hands, and runs his fingers through his fur for a few distracted seconds. It is instantly clear to me that he knows how to handle the beast, and so, I retreat to my own mare, Blaze. 

"Don't you have a stableboy to do this sort of thing for you?" Watson asks me as we are saddling our horses.

"No. I trust my horse when I ride it, I should do the minimal effort of preparing it myself." I do not mention that finding _anything_ to do in this boring place is worth the trouble of upsetting the staff. 

I can see Watson's smirk from the corner of my eye. "That's certainly wise of you."

I do not answer, although I cannot help containing my smile. Every time Watson speaks to me, he does it without injecting any venom in his words. He can be sarcastic, but never mean — not to me, at least. There is an easiness to his words, and it is obvious that he has not spent his childhood in a house that regulated his speech and the quality of his vocabulary, yet he is not vulgar nor above his condition. 

He fascinates me. 

After a few minutes, we are ready and take the horses out. I watch from the corner of my eyes as he climbs onto his saddle, with the quality of a young man with an athletic body. Despite his injury, he is still very much capable, and now without the moustache, actually appears the age he truly is. Evidently, he started believing again in his own youthfulness since he has met me: he holds the reins tightly, the swell of his arm rising under his coat and shirt. Under him, Silver is restless, his hooves digging into the ground. 

"After you," he says, and I acknowledge him with a nod. I allow Blaze into a slow trot, and we set off towards the woods.

We spend the rest of the afternoon wandering about, trotting around the forest and coming to a halt near the river that marks one border of the family estate. We talk, and as ever, conversation is easy. I can easily interest Watson in my latest experiments, and he tells me of the few queer cases he had at his practice lately. When we emerge out of the woods again, the Hall is fully in view in front of us. 

"You said you were up for a challenge?" I ask, grinning. "Let's see who can make it back to the stables first." 

Watson stares at me, astonished by my suggestion. "Holmes, surely you—"

I do not let him finish his sentence before I kick Blaze into action, and she surges forward in the fastest canter she knows, my heels digging down and my elbows raised to allow enough space for the reins. The wind moves through my hair, and I cannot help but laugh: it has been awhile since I've ridden, mostly because of the bad weather, and certainly not at that speed. I can hear the soft thud of Blaze's hooves on the grass, propelling mud left and right, and soon enough, distinguish the sound of Watson's stead behind me. 

Surreptitiously, I slow down Blaze a bit, letting Watson joins us at our height. 

"You are completely mad!" he shouts, although I can feel that he is as ecstatic as I am. Yet instead of suggesting we stop, I deduce that he has no intention to do so from the twinkle in the corner of his eye. Instead, he lets loose Silver's reins, and kicks him to a faster pace. 

I let him get in front: I would never let my pride be hurt by losing a challenge I suggested in the first place, but Watson's competitiveness makes me smile. I watch him as he gets ahead, his black coat whipping against his lower back from the wind and the speed, his strong legs pressing into the flanks of his steed — his hips, so mesmerising as they accompany the movements of the saddle in a succession of quick, smooth snaps. Forward, and back, forward, and back, forward, and back—

My throat feels dry. My feet slide out of the stirrups, and I let myself slip to the side. 

The mud breaks my fall — I had calculated it well enough not to hurt my head. After the first shock of the impact, I let my head down against the grass and close my eyes, trying to restore my breathing to its usual pace.

"Holmes!" I hear Watson cry out. With a faint smile, I turn my head. A blurry figure is moving towards me, the two horses abandoned behind. "Holmes!"

Gentle hands seize my shoulders and keep me lying down as I try to move to a sitting position. Watson's face swims somewhere above me, and I try to focus on it. I protected my head just well but miscalculated the impact to my leg and side, or the overall shock of the fall — my lungs feels as if they are going to burst. Why haven't I thought of that beforehand? 

"Dear God, you could have died!" 

"I have not," I say, forcing out a smile. "I am known to be indestructible, Watson." 

He smiles back, although I can see the concern written over the traits of his face. He leans down, and for a second, I cannot help but think that he is going to kiss me. 

He does no such thing. Obviously.

"Can you see me well?" he asks, and I nod. "Tell me who I am." 

I huff. "It seems you are the one in shock because I just _did_. Your name is John Watson." I know that he wants to see if I am conscious and making sense, but _honestly_ , how could I ever forget something like that?

"Good," he says, and waves a finger in front of my face. "Follow my finger, now." 

"My head is fine," I grumble, as I try to sit up.

"I'm a doctor, it's my role to tell you if your head is fine or not," he says, pushing me down again, his fingers digging through my shoulder. How I wish he would never take his hand away! I pout, trying not to show myself too much, and follow his finger obediently. "You seem fine." (I know, I told him so!) "Can you get up? Wait, I will assist you." 

Watson lends me a hand, and I slowly get up, head slightly dizzy. I look down, only to see that my breeches and coat are entirely ruined from the mud. Head high, I take a first step towards the manor, but my ankle gives away under my weight. Watson, bless him, is there to catch me. 

"Let me help," he says, his hands on my waist.

"Fine." 

He locks one of his arms with mine, so I can rest part of my weight on him. "There," he says, "forget the horses, we'll ask the stableboy to fetch them later."

"We can fetch them now, I am _fine_."

"Oh please, your ankle is hurt, you're putting half of your weight on my arm!" 

Well, yes, but that is not altogether because of my ankle. I concede defeat, and we walk slowly towards the manor. Watson is a reassuring presence by my side, and although he is smaller than me, his body is strong and steady.I cannot help but imagine what he must have looked like, when in his military uniform — again, the image of him, maybe in a half-opened white shirt, rolled to his elbows to allow the heat to leave his body under the Indian sun, monopolises my mind. In any case, his little doctorly demonstration just now has proven how much of a double-faced man he is: as much of a military man, with his pride, competitiveness and temper, as he is a doctor, gentle and caring.

It starts raining just as we reach the back of the manor. "Just in time," Watson says. "Going by the clouds at the horizon, we've got a big storm coming."

"Indeed," I say, more prostrated by the state of my clothing than the weather outside. "I need a bath. And it seems like you could do with one too — I am afraid I rather ruined your clothes." 

Watson grins at me. Have I said something funny? "I could use a bath, yes, if you're offering. It's a good thing I brought a change of clothes, I don't see myself travelling back in a wet and muddy coat." 

"Stay," I let out, before I can stop myself. "For the night— the storm— as you've just said, it looks rather impressive… It is surely no weather to travel in. Stay the night, and we will arrange a carriage for you in the morning."

"Will the lady of the house agree with this idea of yours?"

It is clear that Watson genuinely wants to avoid any conflict with the rest of the household — which means that he does not understand much about my family. I roll my eyes at him. "She does not need to approve of every decision I ever make," I say. "But if it makes you feel better, I will ask her." 

"Please do. Now, let me help you climb the stairs — and we need to ask about that stableboy for the horses."

***

After a short discussion, Mother agrees that Watson must stay at Sherrinford for the night, unless he wants to meet a dreadful end on the slippery roads back to London. When we meet again at dinner, Watson is wearing another suit, its soft gray colour complementing beautifully the deep blue of his eyes. He is discussing some matter with Father, but even from the back I can deduce that he is slightly uncomfortable. Ah, yes — if he has just taken a bath, he must have had a valet to help him dress. It is not the first time I have seen that kind of reaction happen, during the few times we invite commoners to stay home for the night. Watson is certainly too proud to let someone dress him, but that is not all…

Oh. His scar. Yes, of course, Anderson must have seen it, then. And knowing the man, he would not have backed off Watson to let him dress himself. Anderson's sense of duty is stronger than his _common_ sense.

"Come on, Father, do not bore Dr Watson with your old hunting tales he probably heard somewhere else before," I say, stepping into the conversation. Both men stare back at me.

Watson smiles. "Lord Holmes was just telling me the most amazing story—" 

"About the two enormous boars and how it was only a dream in the end? Yes, I have heard it before." 

Father shakes his head. "Well, you have spoiled it, now. I will leave you two to it, gentlemen," he says, waving a hand when Watson opens his mouth, probably to encourage him to stay. God, what will he not do out of politeness?

"Are you quite all right?" I ask Watson, my voice low, just when Father has gone. He frowns, most certainly faking lack of understanding. "Do not pretend in front of me, you know it does not work. Anderson is an idiot at his best — although if you have a more formal complaint to make, I would be happy to have a tangible reason to get rid of him for good." 

Watson waves it off. "Don't. You're right — but it's not Anderson's fault." I pinch my lips together. Of course Watson does not want to be the reason of anyone's sacking, but dear God, Anderson deserves it, after all this time. "It's only that I'm not accustomed to having someone at my service like that. That is all." 

The tightness of his voice is imploring me to drop the subject altogether, which I do. At the same moment, we are fetched for dinner. It is only the four of us around the table, along with one of Mother's friends, Lady Harold or something like that — which means that I can sit by Watson's side. 

We conduct an enthusiastic conversation about my latest experiment — blood discolouration due to contact with certain types of poisonous substances, and Watson is of the biggest help. 

"You are certainly the best conductor of light!" I exclaim, midway through dinner, and I barely notice the pointed look exchange between my parents.

Watson laughs it off, and he keeps informing me about the latest medical discoveries pertaining to poisonous substances — such things they do in London. I cannot wait for the day I will be able to join the scientific community of our country's biggest and most interesting city! Maybe Watson would be amenable to show me the city, one day. We would walk as we just did, arm in arm, down the streets and unto the best, most interesting parts of London. There must be crime every day, over there! 

My thoughts diverge me from the conversation, and when the voices around me start making sense again, I notice that Watson is engaging again in conversation with Father, who is still rambling about hunting. Truly, does Father not know any other subject of conversation?

"And you, do you hunt, Mr Holmes?" 

It takes me a moment to register that I'm the _Mr Holmes_ Watson is asking. "I do not. Father is the one who enjoys killing for sport. I prefer dissecting." 

"I must admit I feel the same," Watson says. He turns towards Father, "although I've noticed a few foxes in the woods today. I thought you might indulge in that kind of game?" 

"We did, we did," Father says, reminiscing about the _good old times_ , "when the boys were young. We sure did go fox hunting, we had a good pack of thirty beagle hounds around at the time. Of course, since Sherlock's incident with Redbeard, we've stopped having dogs at Sherrinford." 

I shoot a look at Father, hoping it will convey my rightful anger. How can he mention Redbeard _now_! In front of Watson!

"Redbeard? What's that?" Watson asks, genuinely interested. 

"He was my dog," I say, tightly, hoping Father will drop the subject.

He does not. Instead, he breathes in, with the dramatic attitude a good storyteller would have in front of a curious audience. He forgets too often that he is _not_ a good storyteller, nor that his audience is interested in whatever he will say next. "Yes, Redbeard was Sherlock's dog," he says, as if I had not _just_ mentioned that. "We got him for Sherlock's sixth birthday, you could not have seen a happier little boy."

I look away, feeling the heat rising to my face, but Father doesn't seem eager to stop and Watson is closely listening to him, a smile on his face.

"They were the best of friends for years. You know, Sherlock always had a little bit of trouble making friends of his own age—" 

"Father," I mumble.

"He trained the dog so well! He always loved our pack of beagle hounds, of course, but Redbeard was something else — a beautiful Irish setter, purebred, of course, and he was the only one allowed inside the house. A true companion, you see, not like the other hunting dogs. Sherlock used to sneak him upstairs into his room to sleep on his bed at night — as if we did not know!" 

"Father, please." 

"And then, one day, a terrible storm hit the manor — worse than this one, and by far — but little Sherlock had been outside with Redbeard, playing pirates around the ditch in the forest, you see, but there was so much water the ground gave way and Redbeard fell. The poor thing broke its neck but survived, somehow — when Sherlock brought him back, we had no option but to shoot the poor beast. Sherlock was devastated, he cried all night and then, for months, he—" 

"Stop it!" I shout. I throw my fork and knife on my plate, and stand up. 

Silence falls around the room as every single pair of eyes is on me. I cannot even dare to look at Watson.

Mother clears her throat, red in her cheeks. "Manners, Sherlock! Sit down, and stop making a fool of yourself in front of the company." 

I shake my head. The company! The company is _my_ company, as I am pretty sure I was the one to invite Watson. And I will not tolerate _others_ making me look like a fool in front of him. Certainly not! "Mother, I—" 

"Don't you dare to talk back," she bites. "And sit down." 

I stomp my foot and kick my chair to the ground. Father jumps in his chair, and I'd be afraid that Mother would implode from anger if I wasn't equally mad at her. "Have tremendous fun without me, then." 

I step out of the room and hop my way upstairs (damned be my earlier miscalculation and my swollen ankle!), and hear the inevitable, " _WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES!_ " roared in my general direction.

I shut the door to my room behind me, and drop on my bed, an arm over my eyes. If Father's story has not discouraged Watson from being my friend, I am sure that my little demonstration did.

I lay on my bed, rehashing the same thought over and over again. In the morning, Joh— Watson will take the first car for London, and he will never visit, or write again. I am doomed with the inability of sustaining friendships. Of understanding common human behaviour. The rest of the world can only despise me for it, but it is as well, for I do not need the rest of the world to thrive, as it has been proven by the last twenty years of my life.

There is a shy knock on my door. 

"Yes?" I grunt, propping myself on my elbows. 

"Holmes, it's me," Watson says, on the other side of the door. 

I get up, running a hand through my hair, hoping that it is presentable enough. I open the door and stand in from of Watson, who is holding a bowl of ice and a cloth on his forearm. If he took the time to go into the kitchen to fetch some ice, it means that—

"You did not stay at dinner," I deduce, astonished. 

"Er— no, I felt the need to check in on you—"

" _Why?_ Did you fear that I would have spent the night _crying_ in bed?" 

Watson doesn't step back. "Of course not. I meant… your ankle," he says and raises the bowl a bit. "I am sorry about what Lord Holmes said at dinner. I did not know the matter would distress you." 

I wave him off. "Let's forget about it." Truly, I do not wish to revisit that conversation a second time this evening.

"Can I come in?" Watson asks, already peaking a bit over my shoulder. "I would like to bandage your ankle for the night." 

Without answering, I open the door, and let him in. Knowing that he would be coming in my room, I would have cleaned it a bit beforehand. I can hear him analysing the mess in front of him — my books are a bit all over the place, along with my correspondence, my papers, and multiple maps of England and London, in particular. At least Tom had the good sense of lighting up a fire before dinner.

I stand in the middle of the room, unsure about what Watson wants to do next.

"Here, just sit in your chair." 

I nod, and follow his orders whilst he sits in the armchair opposite mine. He scoots forwards, sets the bowl between his legs, where my gaze wanders for a while, and taps the inside of his lap. I bend forward to take my boot off, but he stops me. "No, let me."

Without saying a word, I raise my leg and place my foot in his lap. Gently, he unbuttons and unlaces my boot. He removes it with care, and the sudden lack of pressure makes me hiss. 

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

"No." He smiles from the corner of his mouth, not believing me. "Fine. A little."

Next, he takes off my silk stocking, unrolling it from the bottom of my knee, until it comes off my foot. I cannot help but look away — my feet are large and I have always considered this part of anatomy as inelegant. But Watson merely touches my ankle with professional hands, and does not seem to make any judgement about my appearance. 

"It is definitely swollen," he says. "But not twisted nor broken. Here." He puts the damp, cold cloth over my ankle, and I can feel relief prickling my eyes.

"Mother will hate you," I say, "for having left dinner." 

Watson smiles, looking at some point on the floor. "Will she? I rather thought she would blame you over anything I did improperly."

I chuckle. "You understand her well, I see. Won't you join them after dinner?"

"I am rather embarrassed to say, but I have no idea how whist is played."

I wave my hand at him. "Do not bother with that, it is a tremendous waste of time anyway."

"In any case, I would rather spend the evening in your company." 

The reflection of the fire is dancing in his eyes, and his smile is genuine. We spend the rest of the evening sitting in our chairs, barely talking, whilst the rain bats my windows. If I am worried at first that we have nothing interesting to say to each other, I quickly understand that there is something comfortable in the silence around us, only broken when Watson wets the cloth again, and puts it back around my ankle. My foot stays in his lap, against his muscled thigh, his small, warm hands on my bare leg. I let my gaze lose itself in the fire, and I can feel Watson watching me. A part of me hopes that the storm will go on for the next few days, forcing him to remain at Sherrinford for more than a single night. But the rain sounds already less tenacious than it was earlier, and I fear it will be entirely gone in the morning. 

At some point in the evening, Watson gently lets my leg down. The swelling has reduced greatly, although he leaves the bowl of now cold water along with the cloth for me to use, and excuses himself for the night. 

Tom comes in when my parents retire for the night, but once I'm changed and lying in bed, I cannot find sleep. It must be around midnight when I finally get up, light a candle, and make my way in the corridor without any particular plan.

When I see light under Watson's door, my heart stops in my chest. Carefully, I open the door to the adjoining bathroom, and kneel on the tiles, in front of the door that links to his room. I peer through the keyhole, and the vision that I see makes my heart jump so hard I fear that Watson will hear it beat from the other room.

He is in one corner of the room, leaning against the frame of the window and gazing outside, lost in his thoughts. There is a slight frown on his face, and it is clear to me that whatever he is thinking about is a problem that he cannot understand nor solve by himself. He is only wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and rolled around his elbows, forearms crossed over his chest. I feel heat rising to my cheek. To say that I have caught him in such a state of undress! His thumb is drawing small circles over the bone of his elbow, as if reassuring himself of something.

After a moment, he sighs, and leaves the window. Quickly, I step back from the door, afraid that he has seen me. A minute passes, and I hear the creaking of a chair. I look inside the room again, but Watson is out of my sight, sitting at the desk along the wall I cannot see. There's the scratching of a pen on paper. Writing, then. Whatever the letter is about, it causes him much trouble, evidently. Is he writing to a lover? Would they be female, or male?

Watson stands up suddenly, the paper in his hand. He starts walking around the room, rereading his words, a displeased look on his face. His own words frustrate him. Maybe he is unable of expressing his love correctly. That is an issue that bothers most people, apparently. I never understood it, but then, maybe I do not understand many things about such feelings. 

Watson shakes his head and looks up, in the direction of the door I am hiding behind. For a split second, I am sure that he has seen me. I stand up, blow out the candle, and exit the bathroom as quickly as I can, only to fall upon Anderson on my way out. 

"Sir, what are you doing here?" he asks, loudly. 

"Nothing that concerns you," I whisper. "What are _you_ doing here?"

He jerks his chin back, faking confusion. "Checking on Mr Watson, of course." 

"It is _Doctor_ Watson. And it is nearly midnight. Go back to your quarters, Anderson, that is an order." As much as Anderson can be an idiot, he never disobeys direct orders.

He nods. "Very well, sir."

I watch him go down the hallway and when he is out of sight, I retreat to my room, wondering what exactly Anderson was trying to achieve, and what tomorrow will bring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I will be able to post next chapter before the middle of next week since I have an airplane to catch in a few days, but I promise it will be good. ;)  
> As always, thank you for your lovely comments! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the funniest chapter of this fic... Enjoy!  
> Also, the cricket and river scenes are inspired from Becoming Jane. :)

Watson is on top of me, legs propped on each side of my thighs, his hips undulating in the same way he was riding that horse, earlier today. Or was it in another life, altogether? He is rubbing against me just so, even though _those_ parts of our anatomy remain out of my sight, blurred by a constant fog around us. I cannot help but lie back and let him handle me that way, his deep blue eyes gazing at me as if I were the most important thing in the universe. I am the only thing he can see or think of right now as we are joined in this way. Our fingers are linked together as he holds my hands, his arms strong and his muscles deliciously taut. His mouth is half-open and I can see his tongue between his lips, darting out to wet them as he does so every time he is in my company. When our eyes meet again, he smiles, one of those smug things that make my spine weak, and starts kicking his hips forward with intention, taking care of our mutual pleasure with his extensive experience in this matter. My thoughts too clouded by lust to restrain myself, I start moving my hips in the most shameful way, seeking contact, seeking more and more friction, which elicits only more excitement on Watson's part, who bends over me, his lips tickling my ear. 

" _Sherlock_ …"

I wake up in a gasp just as I spill on my nightgown, my hips digging the stiffness between my legs against the mattress of my bed. I bite my pillow, shameful, feeling heath rise to my face. The stickiness pooling somewhere under me is unpleasant and uncomfortable. It is not the first time I had nightly emissions of the kind, but it had been years ago, when I was just a young boy. And I certainly never experienced such dreams before — dear God! If he knew! If he knew how I had just pictured him — I would die. How monstrous of me, to imagine someone in this position, doing what we just did!

Slowly, my bite on the pillow relaxes as I am taken by sudden exhaustion. It must be the shame. Or worse — my cleverness pooling from my head to down there, in order to produce more of that sticky substance! 

What have I become?!

It takes me a while to fall asleep again, but I do, in the end, somehow convinced that the mess will be gone in the morning if I ignore it long enough. 

***

The mess is not gone in the morning. In fact, it is _worse_. It has stuck and dried in my hair down there, and both my nightgown and the sheet are crusty and stained. 

"Mr Holmes, Lady Holmes has just called for breakfast," Tom says on the other side of the door.

"Do not enter!" I shout as I jump off the bed. Tom cannot see me like this, or else will draw his own — _wrong_ — conclusions, and will surely report to Mother and God—

I rip the sheets from the bed, just as Tom asks, "Is everything all right, sir?" 

"Yes, yes, why would things be not all right? Just give me a moment." 

In a desperate moment of inspiration, I throw the sheets in the fireplace, where the fire is slowly dying. Doing so revives it in a small explosion, smoke filling in the room as the chimney cannot draw it quickly enough. 

"Good Lord, is that smoke?" Tom says, opening the door against my order. 

I had just thrown my nightgown on the floor and wrapped myself the bed's duvet when he steps inside. He runs to open the window, while I wave one corner of the duvet in front of the fireplace. Slowly, the smoke finds a way out, but my troubles are only beginning: Tom is staring at me, bewildered. "Did you _burn_ your sheets, sir?"

I shrug. "Their sight was abhorrent to me. I always hated the colour." 

From the look on his face, it's evident that he is entirely unconvinced by my statement. I am usually a very good liar, but maybe Thomas knows me too well, after all this time. My stomach clenches when I see his gaze dropping to the ground, where my nightgown is still lying, the stain prominently facing upwards. I kick it under the bed. "Do not mind that, I will pick it up later. I do not feel like going to breakfast," I add, which is true. I am in no particular mood to see Mother so soon after yesterday's incident, and I am still unsure of being able to sit in Watson's presence without making a fool of myself. "I will take a bath instead, Tom." 

Tom nods once, a slight smile stretching his lips. "All right, sir." 

***

When I am finally presentable again, I go downstairs, only to see the Hall entirely abandoned of human life. I smile, happy to have this respite, and wonder what kind of experiment I should find to do today. Just as I step outside, I hear happy cries and shouts coming from the field between the manor and the forest. Over there, I am surprised to find a small crowd sitting on chairs, watching as a few men play a game of cricket. Quickly enough, I distinguish Lady Margaret Stamford, along with two friends of hers I could not name for the life of me. On the field, Lord Harrington is waving a bat, and — my heart clenches in my chest — Watson is throwing the ball. There are other players, of course — Lord Stamford along with a few of his friends, and probably one or two potential suitors Mother had time to invite upon seeing that the bad weather had cleared the sky. 

But my eyes are for Watson only, who, just like yesterday evening, has his shirt rolled to his shoulders under his waistcoat, as he flexes his arms, ready to throw. There is the faintest blush of red on his cheeks, and he licks his pinked-up lips in a moment of concentration. 

He throws the ball and Harrington hits it, and the men start running in every possible direction (it is quite possible that I never learned the rules of cricket). The game is the dullest one, and I never understood team sports. Oh well. 

"Mr Holmes! Come sit down with us and watch," Lady Margaret cries out when she sees me. I try to make a quick escape, but I am far too advanced to hide properly before the rest of them can see me. 

"Mr Holmes!" Watson says when he notices me. He walks towards me, a bat stuck under his arm. "Are you going to play with us?" 

Lady Margaret chuckles in my back. "No, thank you, I will pass," I tell Watson.

I am just about to signify my disinterest about the game when he adds, "That is too bad! I was in the cricket's university team, back in the days." 

I smile. "My ankle, I am afraid," I say, pointing towards it. It is half a lie: my ankle has been mostly fine since this morning, although I am not sure if it would support my weight should I decide to run. In any case, I had decided upon waking not to make myself a fool in front of Watson, so I shall not participate in any games this morning.

Up close like this, I can see the sweat pearling on his forehead, and just above his upper lip. Moustache-less upper lip. He is far from the limping old man I met days ago, I note, and I feel like I was the starting point of this transformation. Had he not abandoned his cane after that first dance, after all? The thought makes me rather proud.

"Of course, of course. Do stay and watch! I am afraid our team rather needs the moral support." 

I nod, unable to produce any sound. What is he thinking? I would not miss this for the world!

Lady Margaret comes my way and grabs me by the arm as Watson walks away towards the field. She is babbling away about points and teams as she makes me sit down beside her, fortunately on the far side from where Mother is sitting, watching the game under her parasol. Father is nowhere to be seen — he knows of no sport other than hunting, and being humiliated by a bunch of younger, fitter men is enough to keep him inside on a sunny day. 

In the end, I decide that cricket is rather an enjoyable game. Lady Margaret is quite taken with the sight of her sweetheart — or soon-to-be sweetheart — as I deduce from the unyielding pace of her fast monologue. There is indeed quite a lot of cheering every time Harrington marks a point, or whatever points are in cricket, and upon further analysis, I understand that the majority of the fair sex is obsessed by the young man. I would have to be blind not to admit that Harrington _is_ rather handsome, in the most conventional of ways, but he is no Watson either. The man has not even _been_ in a war. Or learned a practical skill such as medicine. No, Harrington is a lord, a true one, the kind that is only occupied by his estate, attending balls and courting. _Bo-ring_. 

It is clear, as much as I had stated it on the night of the ball, that is he also taken with Lady Margaret, by the way he glances at her every time he marks a point during the game. He wants to see if she approves, and dear God, if he does not know, he is more of an idiot than I originally thought. It is a good match, I rather think. Nothing for Lord Stamford to disapprove of, apart the fear that Harrington's interest might be fleeting and will change on the first occasion. He would have liked a more mature man for his niece, an older fellow with a greater stability of character, but Stamford is a good sport, and I am convinced he would not refuse his niece's choice in the name of true love. It only takes Harrington to ask, but he is still too uncertain of the answer to risk it. 

These reflections only occupy a very short time of the morning, most of my thoughts directed towards John Watson and his rather athletic bod— abilities. I mentally add to his very own room in my mind that he used to play cricket as a young man, for this is vital information. What did he look like, then, I wonder, when he was my age? By what is going on on the field, it is clear that Watson is by far the best at the sport, and soon enough Lady Margaret whispers to my ear that the wind has turned in Watson's team's favours. It would have evidently been the case long before if he were not surrounded by fools who hardly know how to wave a bat. Again, this man is the direct proof that nobility does not necessarily come with competence.

Just as Lady Margaret hypothesises in my ear on which team should win, my eyes are distracted by the sight of Watson. He is juggling with the ball again, throwing it from one hand from another, and for a second, his gaze meets mine, as if he wanted to be sure I would be watching.

He licks his lips, and I drop my gaze instantly, pretending not to have seen him, and ask an inane question about points to Lady Margaret. Dear God, if he knew how I imagined him during the night…

Finally, one team moves again, running from one piece of wood to the other, for a reason I cannot begin to understand. When one of the wood things is knocked down by the ball, one team erupts in cheers, along with a few people in our small crowd who start clapping. I remember to fake disinterest when I understand that it's Watson's team that has won, but I cannot help but smile back when he turns his face towards me. 

Harrington, breathless, approaches us, and I can feel Lady Margaret tensing up on her chair. "If we would have been victorious," he says, smiling, visibly not frustrated about losing a silly game, "I would have dedicated it to you, my lady, but I am rather afraid things did not play out so well."

Lady Margaret squirms on her chair, unable to produce a response, and I roll my eyes, my head turned away.

"Don't beat yourself up over it, Harrington," Watson says, joining us. From here, I can see how sweat has gathered around the neck of his shirt, and on his forehead, where a few strands of darkened hair are plastered. "Lady Stamford, I can assure you that Harrington has proven himself worthy of praise — and this comes from a man who knows what he is talking about." 

"I do trust your judgement, Dr Watson," Lady Margaret answers, as she lets Harrington bow down and kiss her hand. 

"Now," Harrington says, "I think I have heard about a river?" 

Before I understand what is happening, Watson shoves a hand on Harrington's shoulder, and they are running down the hill towards the bit of the woods that covers the river. Giggling, Lady Margaret grabs me by the wrist, pulls me out of my chair and before I know it, my feet tumble down the hill after her, everything going too fast to stop. 

I can see Watson and Harrington in front of us — if it were not for my damned ankle, I would have joined them under no time, of course, leaving Lady Margaret behind. The distance gets bigger as we reach the forest, and for a second, we lose them out of our sight as my bad ankle is inevitably slowed down by the numerous branches and brambles. 

When we finally reach the source of the strong laughter by the river, I see Harrington getting rid of his shirt and Watson dropping his trousers. Through the leaves, I distinguish a flash of pale skin — dear God! — Watson's bottom!

I place my back against the nearest tree, and turn my head to see Lady Margaret in a similar position, a hand over her mouth to cover the sound of her giggles. She was just at my back, and so I know she saw what I saw.

Once the shock has passed, I carefully turn myself, still hiding behind the tree, and push two branches apart to look at the men in the river, laughing and shouting and splashing water at each other. Although they are naked as the day they were born, the situation is not at all intimate. It looks like they are playing like young children, or brothers. It still seems peculiar to me, who never played much as a child, and certainly not with Mycroft.

Now, I can see the strength of Watson's bare shoulders, although he is too far away for me to discern his scar. He is standing too deep in the water for me to witness once more the perfect roundness of his bottom, or to get a glimpse of his front. Is he as blond down there as he is on his head?

I look away, shame burning my cheeks. What is this? Why am I suddenly interested in Watson's appearance nearly as much as in his intellectual capacities? 

It would be improper for me to stay and wait for more, even though I am tempted, but Lady Margaret is already tugging my sleeve towards the way back to the manor.

***

I am standing along the river, just like this morning, my hands on the bark of the tree I am hiding behind. Gently, I push a branch out of my way, my eyes setting on the sight of Watson and Harrington in the river. Their naked bodies are close as they have stopped playing their games, and this time, the water is so low I can distinguish the fog around both their fronts, see the details of the water lapping at their strong, bare thighs.

They were laughing just a moment ago, but now they have paused in some kind of common, silent thought, as they look at each other. Unaware of my close presence, Harrington is the first one to shift forwards and crash his lips onto Watson's mouth, who winds his strong arms around Harrington's shoulders and back, kissing back passionately. 

I take a step back, my heart missing a beat before it redoubles its pounding inside of my chest. I knew about Harrington, of course, but not about Watson's… disposition. The shame I had initially felt about witnessing them in such an intimate moment fades away, replaced by something stronger, something I cannot quite name. Surely I would have noticed if Harrington had been sweet on Watson this whole time! What is the meaning of this?

My eyes find them again in the middle of the river, still clinging to each other with passion, Watson's caressing hands all over his lover's body. Heat rises to my face, but I cannot avert my gaze. I do not understand what overcomes me, but I feel myself growing hot and stiff between my legs, as if aroused by the sight in front of me. Of course not! It is preposterous to think so. Yet I wonder: what would it be like to be the one Watson is holding in his arms?

And suddenly I am there, my body against his, water surrounding me, except that I am not Harrington but _me_ , and it is _me_ that Watson desires, and no one else. He presses his lips to my neck, my cheeks, my forehead, and — of all places! — on my _mouth_. I kiss him back with all the fierceness of a most experienced lover, and he has to put his hands on each side of my head to stop me. 

"Please," he whispers, his eyes full of undying adoration, "no more kissing — it is too much for me."

"All right, all right," I answer, as my hands gently lower down his back, to rest just above the curve of his bottom. He shivers at my touch, his hands in return exploring my body, my torso.

I cannot help but rub against him, watch as the colour rises to his face, his pupils growing dark with equal lust. He pushes his hips forward, but when I look down, the fog has returned around the place where our bodies are joined.

"You are so good to me," he mumbles as he hides his face into my neck, his arms clinging to me. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and obviously the cleverest man alive, and this— oh, I have never felt better than in your arms…" He keeps on whispering his litany of praise as I rub, and rub, and rub, and—

A door opens somewhere, jerking me out of my sleep. 

I raise my head from my pillow, cursing whoever is moving at this hour of the night. I shut my eyes again, hoping it is not too late for my body to fall back to sleep, in order to catch what remains of that blissful dream. Send me back, for God's sake!

I try to remember Watson's exact words, but that world is already floating away from me. I bite on my lower lip, my hips kicking forward, and I realise that my hand is stuck between my thighs. I am not touching myself — merely pressing my palm to my stiffness, and before I can do anything about it, my release spills on my nightgown.

This time, I lose no time but get up and fetch a cloth that I wet in a bowl of water I keep in the bathroom at night. I rub it at the front of my nightgown, but decide to change it nonetheless, should it stain. I reserve the same treatment to my sheets, fortunately mostly spared, this time. 

When I sit back on my bed again, I push the heel of my hands against my eyes. What is happening to me? I rarely have nightly emission, and now I had two nights in a row, accompanied with vivid dreams. Is it natural? If it is, wouldn't it have happened before? Am I suffering from some kind of shameful condition that my parents did not tell me about? Was I born that way or is it an illness that develops? No book at Sherrinford will be able to provide any information about this strange occurrence, and it is out of the question to ask anyone. Maybe a doctor could hypothesise on this anomaly, but the one at the village is an idiot, and the only other doctor I know is…

No. Out of the question. Dr Watson, as the conscientious man he is, will want to understand the source of my troubles, and will ask about the dream. I could lie, of course — I am an excellent liar — but explaining to him the treacherous reactions of my body might disgust him.

It is not like I have no factual knowledge on the matter, either. I had always been able to deduce when the other young boys were indulging in this unhygienic activity back at school, running around like overexcited baboons, separated in primitive bands where tension often aroused, their only source of agreement being their common hatred towards me. There was only one boy, Trevor, who would follow me around. He was a bit shy, playful, and tedious at times, but his intellect was far superior to the others. When I had reflected so out loud, he confided in me that he would always refuse to fondle with himself, whatever the circumstances. His mother — a nurse, whose opinion is therefore to be trusted — had told him that the energy his body spends on producing the substance resulting from the stimulation of those regions was taken directly from the energy reserved for the brain. The more one touched himself, the more the mind lessened. The boys at school were definitely the direct proof of that. And if producing that release for means of reproduction has to be taken into account, it also explains my parents' case. They had to do it _twice_ to obtain Mycroft and me. 

Useless to say that after Trevor's revelation, I completely stopped minding whatever was happening to my body. It had always been transport to me, of course, but my body had been rebelling against me during the few years I was growing to become a man, and I had been under the obligation make whatever stiffness leave my body by manual stimulation. I stopped completely after Trevor had warned me of its effects on one's brain and mind, and it stopped being a problem anymore, my body seldom manifesting itself… before this moment. 

There is nothing I can do, only to light a candle and take a book in hand, for I will surely not be able to regain sleep tonight. Perhaps another symptom of this most incongruous illness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Did Sherlock just imagine himself as a sex god, whilst being too modest to even picture what John would look like naked? Yep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay -- I spent the weekend at the fic writer's retreat, which took me two days to get there by car and two days to get back, hence the delay in editing and posting this chapter. Thank you for your patience, and if everything goes to plan, you should still have the next chapter this Friday!

To all the people doubting my abilities to become the world's unique and most renowned consulting detective, you are hereby proven wrong: I have received a letter from a _king_. The _King_ of _Bohemia_.

Sure, he is being quite a prick with his arrogant attitude, writing on and on about betrayal and women and betrayal and how nobody betrays the King of Bohemia and it requires a great amount of stealth and it bores me to death, but the _King_ of _Bohemia_. 

Asking for _my_ help. As a consulting detective!

He says he heard about me through his advisor, after hearing about how I had solved the case of Monsieur de la Freyère only by correspondence. That is why he is consulting me today, hoping I will be able to help his case by means of pen and paper. Nothing easier, of course!

The case is boring — it concerns a woman, a rather clever one who made the right assumption of providing herself security after having made the mistake to fall in love or such other pedestrian thing. Her security lies not on a few handwritten letters, which are easy enough to proclaim as being forged, but on the seal used on the envelopes. The royal seal, it wax sprinkled with the one little detail that proves too well that the letters (and one small painting of the couple) are in fact from the King. An idiotic mistake, of course, but without which I wouldn't have a case to work on as my other correspondence is rather thin at the moment. Besides, having a king owing you a favour is quite the thing, and will most certainly propel forward my career as a consulting detective.

There is nothing easier than asking Mother's benediction to invite Miss Irene Adler — a renowned opera singer — to Sherrinford for a few days. Not that she thinks I am interested in the woman in any way — Mother knows better, by now — but most likely believes that I have some kind of question about classical opera or the different breathing patterns of singers. It is far not the strangest request I ever asked her. 

My enterprise is facilitated when I learn (I have Irregulars all over the country) that Miss Adler is in fact in England at the moment. She answers my letter with great enthusiasm, both about my own musical experience and the perspective of a retreat in the country for a few days before her leaving for America.

Needless to say, I am quite surprised when I meet Miss Adler for the first time. She is… very much of an opera singer, very much of an actress who takes the entire world for her stage just in the way she holds herself, but apart from that, it is very difficult for me to read her. Nothing like good Doctor Watson, from whom I can deduce the exact position he has slept in looking at the tightness of his muscles. 

Mother greets Miss Adler with impossible delight, internally pleased about having met a person famous for something other than being born rich. Tea time is perfect to engage in debates on colourful butterflies and Shetland ponies (I have to admit I was not listening). After tea, I lead Miss Adler to the library, with the excuse that it is the place where I keep my violin. 

"Now," Mother whispers in my ear, "do I have to send someone in there as well, or are you going to behave?" 

_Someone_ is a rather pale euphemism for a chaperone, and my only answer comes with the roll of my eyes. Poor Mother, still under the disillusion that _maybe_ , _one day_ the right feminine silhouette will make my knees tremble. Not quite. Not according to the dreams I have been having — but enough of that already. 

The moment the door to the library closes, Miss Adler removes the shawl off her shoulders, exposing the pale skin of her neck. "It is terribly hot in here, do you mind?" She throws me a look from the corner of her eyes, a smirk spreading on her lips as she walks into the library, towards the window. "Of course you do not," she says, and I cannot help but frown. "It is as well," she adds, dropping to the nearest armchair. 

A pause. 

"Has a cat got your tongue, Mr Holmes? You are terribly quiet, all of a sudden."

I throw her a look, still pondering my answer. Definitely not anything like _it is just not every day one meets their equal in matters of deduction_. "You have been in Russia, I perceive," I say instead. 

"I have." She is still smiling. I have not taken her aback, then. "Three months ago. I performed _Médée_." 

I sneer. "The one who kills her children?" 

There is visibly nothing I can say to make Miss Adler's smile waver. "Did you know that in the original myth, Médée was only trying to save her children from a terrible death by the hand of the enemy? The versions differ, but a few say that the gods were the ones to trick her, telling her that burying her children alive would protect them until the threat was gone. That was not the case, of course. She is even worshipped as the patron of children, in their religion. I do wonder who was the man to transform her into a murderess who got what she deserved."

"She must have been stupid to believe that burying her children would not kill them." 

"Oh, I think she knew what she was doing, did she not? Would you not kill your own children, or someone dear to you, Mr Holmes, knowing that they are about to be abducted and tortured? Would you not sacrifice everything for a loved one's happiness, or maybe in this case, lack of suffering?" 

I raise an eyebrow. "I have never considered such a possibility." 

"Then you either lack imagination or experience," she says, with a smile that suggests that I am only a foolish child without understanding of how the world works. "Or maybe, _someone_ who you would sacrifice everything for." I see. She is _that_ kind of woman. I am once again amazed by the sharpness of her wit, although she keeps using it to insult my person. "Did you say that you have a violin? If you are good enough, I will accompany you with my voice tonight, after dinner." 

***

The second part of my plan takes place on the following day. After breakfast, Mother asks us to play again together, since we entertained the whole manor last night by our performance, but Miss Adler excuses herself: she has a friend at Brookridge Village she desires to meet with, and will not be back before dinner tonight.

I did not anticipate that my job would be this easy. It is clear that Miss Adler does not have the letters and the painting on her person (or the men the King had employed before writing to me would have found them easily), but I know she does not travel without them. They are, therefore, in her quarters. 

I enter her room after she leaves the manor, and it takes me a good half-an-hour to go through her belongings, without much success. I sit down for a minute, closing my eyes. I am failing where the other men, the King's thieves, also failed. But they were men of inferior intellect, and to succeed, I must think differently. 

When I open my eyes again, I can feel my lips stretching into a smile. I walk up to the room's desk, and retrieve Miss Adler's personal correspondence from one of the drawers. There they are, the letters, tucked away in the most obvious place in the world, among other papers of mere importance! And with them, the painting, neatly rolled in a small tube. Quickly, I put everything back into its place, taking the letters and the painting with me.

But before I can write to the King to inform him of my success, my train of thought goes back to Miss Adler, who left earlier, dressed quite fashionably for a stroll in a local village.

It takes me twenty minutes to don on one of my best costumes — the old man with the pipe — and I escape the manor by the staff's door. I play my role well and a clergyman lets me on his carriage to Brookridge, where Miss Adler evidently is not. Little George, one of my Irregulars, tells me that the only thing out of the ordinary was the arrival of an Englishman, a Londoner, at Riverside, two days ago. 

The village is not that far, and I get there in time to witness the strangest order of events. Even Watson would not believe me, although I do plan on writing a letter later on to explain to him exactly what happened — this little tale ought to interest him.

So, I arrive at Riverside, and even though the whole village is quite silent — everyone spends the day on the fields — there is quite the commotion at the local church, where, in front of the doors, two men and a woman stand together.

I stop, trying not to gape too much as I come to understand what Miss Adler has been up to. 

When the little group sees me, the dressed man waves his hand towards me. 

"Sir, kind sir!" he comes my way, visibly agitated. "My name is Edward Norton, and this is my fiancée, Miss Adler… We are in a great hurry of getting married today, for we are leaving tomorrow morning at the first light of dawn. The only problem is that we lack a second witness for the vows to take place. Would you be so kind as to help poor sweethearts?"

I mumble a stream of incomprehensible words around my pipe, before nodding towards Norton. 

"Thank you, sir," he says, clearly overjoyed but still upright about it. "Please follow us inside." 

I do as I am told, limping after them. I take the old blue hat off my head only to reveal a gray wig as we enter the church, where the clergyman is waiting for us. As the ceremony proceeds, I stand beside the other witness, which I deduce is the village's pharmacist. When it is my turn, I lean down to sign a trembling _X_ on the official document, and the newlyweds embrace. 

Later on, when I am back at the manor, I cannot help but laugh as I take off my disguise. The King, visibly, has nothing to fear about his upcoming wedding — Miss Adler, or should I say, Mrs Norton, is already a married woman! And now that I have the picture and the letters in my possession, he can rest assured that nothing threatening will come out of this.

Still smiling, I sit down at my desk, and take out a quill and some paper. Time to write this tale to Dr Watson — I am sure he will greatly appreciate this one.

***

Some time after pages and pages of my small, inelegant, crawly handwriting, a cry resonates through the manor. 

"Fire, fire! Everybody out!"

I jump on my feet at the sound of Anderson's voice, followed by cries coming from the rest of the household, making sure that everybody has heard what is happening. Quickly, I slip on a dressing gown over my nightgown, and head downstairs, caught in a flurry of movement as everybody precipitates towards the doors. 

Mother stands by my side while we wait dutifully on the grass for a few minutes, watching the manor. My keen eyes do not see anything out of the ordinary, but the fire has probably taken downstairs in the kitchens. Soon, it will be big enough to take down all of Sherrinford. Mother is wrapped in a long shawl, not unlike some kind of birthday present, trying to preserve her dignity even though her hand is at the base of her neck and she keeps on gasping at nothing. In the meanwhile, Father has taken a few domestics and is investigating the source of the fire. 

It takes another few minutes before they emerge again. 

"It was a false alert," Father states. "Anderson and I have checked every corner of the house and there is not a fire in sight." 

That, apparently, does not relieve Mother from her great state of agony. "Dear God! To say we could have died!"

"In an _imaginary_ fire, Mother?" 

I roll my eyes at her and start ascending back towards the manor, tired of waiting in the cold for evidently nothing to happen. Already, many questions assail my mind. Who has started the alert, and why? Was there really the beginning of a fire, one that has been put down quickly, or was it some sort of ruse? In that case, why lie to us? Whom did they want to scare?

It is only in the morning, after a few hours of undisturbed sleep, that I understand the inexcusable mistake that I have made. I was about to start writing back to the King of Bohemia, to send back what he asked for, when I realised that the letters and the small painting that I had hidden in my room were missing. 

The imaginary fire had not been invented to scare anyone, but simply to make me leave my room during a period long enough to retrieve the compromising letters. 

I go down the stairs two-by-two and fling the door open to the dining room where Father and Mother are having breakfast. 

"We did not call for breakfast this morning, Sherlock," Mother says, "we thought you could use the sleep."

"Where is Miss Alder?" I promptly demand. 

Father cocks his eyebrows. "Gone, unfortunately. She must have called for a horse first thing in the morning. I have not seen her during my morning walk." 

I turn on myself, my nails digging into the palms of my hand. She must have gone just after obtaining what she found in my room! How could I have been fooled this way! Now not only will I have to report this failure to the King of Bohemia, but I will have no interesting tale to write to Watson. What a pity!

"Mr Holmes, if I may," Mr Willis says, taking a step forward, the morning mail displayed on his platter. "The maids have found this on the table this morning. It is addressed to you." 

I take the envelope from him, dropping to the nearest chair, trying to ignore Mother's hawk-like stare. I open it by ripping the paper open altogether, only to feel a golden locket fall into the palm of my hand. I stand and turn my back to my parents (even though Mother leans back on her chair to try to have a peek at what I'm holding). 

"She is very elegant, that Miss Adler, don't you find?" 

"Quite," Father says. 

Gently, I open the locket, my mouth falling slightly open at the sight of what is inside — it is the painting, but only the part that represents her face.

"Sherlock?" 

"Yes, yes, quite elegant," I say. I try to open the back of it, to see if the painting was somehow folded in it — one last proof I could send the King of Bohemia to reassure him that miss— Mrs Norton will never bother him again — but instead, I find that she had cut it precisely around her own face and bust.

"Too bad she is not of noble descent, for you seemed to like her, Sherlock. She is perfect in every way, is she not? A true lady, with her voice, her delicacy…"

"And her breasts," I mutter sarcastically under my breath. 

"What was that?" 

I shake my head, smiling to myself as I close the locket between my finger and slip it inside a pocket. It's the first time I got beaten, and by a woman, no less! Alas, if I had to concede defeat to anyone, it would be to her. What a great subterfuge! What a great mind! Even I must admit it. Maybe even the equal of my own… Mrs Irene Norton. _The_ Woman.

"Too bad she could not have stayed any longer. I am sure that it is this dreadful fire that scared her away. You should write to her, Sherlock, and assure her that we are all fine. Dear God! I close my eyes and I can see Sherrinford going into flames! What an adventure!" 

I roll my eyes as I sit again, ready for breakfast. There has never been someone quite as dramatic as Mother. 

***

I am dying. 

This day, this hour— is the inevitable moment of my demise.

There is this impenetrable fog surrounding my thoughts, as I lay in what seems to be a bed. The last thing that I remember is the dark night, and wolf beast chasing after me as I ran through a field of wheat, until its face changed to the portrait of Mrs Norton, who started laughing, raising a small pistol to my face.

Now, my skin is sticky with sweat. 

Who has left the window open? It is impossibly cold for this time of the year.

My sight tries to grasp on something, anything, but my surroundings remain blurry. I can hear movement on my right, and I extend a hand which dangles out of my bed.

"Tom," I rasp, "… fire." 

"Holmes! You're awake!"

How is it that I hear Watson's voice? I must be dreaming — or maybe I am becoming insane. If insanity means imagining Watson, maybe it is not as bad as I feared.

"Am… not. Dreaming."

"You're not dreaming, no." A chair rattles against the floor, and I see the shadow of a man in the corner of my eye. "Let me take your pulse."

"The wolf, is it… gone? She wanted my— my skin because… I think I stole her wheat." 

"You're talking nonsense, my friend. Do not try to move." I have to concentrate on his words, even though I can clearly distinguish the worry in his tone.

Two cold fingers on the inside of my wrist, gently pressing my skin. _Watson_. It truly is him. It must be. Once you eliminate the impossible… " _John_ …"

The fingers dimple my skin slightly harder. Is my pulse so feeble that he needs to press so much? "What is it, Holmes?"

"I am not dressed!" I suddenly realise, as I try to sit up. His hands catch me first, and push me against the mattress. How horrible for him to witness me in this state! What does my hair look like? Am I too pale? When did I last wash?

"Don't worry, I'm here only as your doctor. You— you asked for me." Did I, really? " _Someone_ apparently told Dr Kent that his sister is sick and in dire need of his help." Ah, this sounds more like me. Oh well. I try to chuckle, but the sound sticks at the base of my throat, just where it aches terribly. 

Watson stands up and for a moment, he is gone from my sight. "John!" I writhe, trying to roll on my side. 

I feel his hands on my shoulder, pushing me back yet again. "I am here, I am here. Please, Holmes, do not exert yourself. You will be fine but you need to _rest_ ." The military man finally transpires through. I can only imagine him, on the field, talking with _this_ voice to his men. How they must have all looked with adoration towards their captain! How lucky they were, to be in his presence, to fight by his side!

The door creaks open, but whoever stands there is too far away for me to see. "Dr Watson? The bath is ready."

"Thank you, Thomas." Watson is hovering over me again, and I cannot help but smile at the sight of his face. "Are you able to walk, Holmes?" 

My arms trembling, I try to prop myself on my elbows in order to slip my feet out of the bed, but miserably fail to. Before my head hits my pillow, Watson catches me, and passes his other arm under my knees. 

Before I understand what is happening, I am lifted in the air, leaving the blessed warmth of the bed. I shiver, maybe not as much from the cold as from Watson's grip on me, and let my head fall against his chest as I close my eyes. Damned be my blocked nose — I would have enjoyed to know how he smelled so close.

Too soon, he lowers me, still in my night gown, in a bath of what he believes to be room-temperature water. It feels more like melted snow to me. 

"Cold," I manage to hiss. My nightgown is floating around, raised around my legs from the water, becoming slightly more transparent in the places where it sticks to my body. I can only hope that I am not blushing too hard.

Yet, Watson does not seem to be looking at me, walking behind my back, as he fetches something I can't see. "I know. I am sorry, but it's quite necessary to make your temperature drop." He gets on his knees by my side, and passes a cloth over my forehead. "You are very brave," he says, as if he means it. 

I want to snort. This is not being brave. This is only a bit of cold water. Being brave would be saving men on a battlefield. Fighting for one's life, for one's brothers in arms, for one's country. Being a doctor in one of the biggest cities in the world. Working. Doing something with one's life. 

What am I, in comparison? I have never seen battle grounds, never been to the city — what must Watson think of me! A nobleman without any real experience of what life truly is!

"I am not brave," I croak, my throat sore, my teeth clinking together.

"Why do you say that?" 

"I have done— nothing. I am not as brave as you are." 

I cannot see his face as I say the words, and a minute or two of silence follow, while I soak in the freezing water. I feel like Watson is about to say something, but in the end, he does not. Instead, I feel the back of his hand over my forehead, as he takes the cloth away. After what seems to be a long time, he calls in Tom, who helps me get up in the tub and change into a dry nightgown, Watson suddenly gone from the room.

When he comes back, he presses the back of his hand against my forehead one more time. My legs are still trembling under me, and so, gently, he places his arms around me and carries me back to my room. I cling to him, desperate for us to never part. It should be possible, shouldn't it? Yet, too soon, I feel my heels touching the mattress of my bed.

"No," I whisper, my fist bunched in the front of his shirt, but it must have been too low for him to hear, because he places me back on the bed nonetheless. His precise hands work for a few seconds, cocooning me with fresh, too-thin sheets. 

Then, finally: "You know it's not true, what you said before." His voice sounds slightly constricted, but my mind can't make anything out of it, too exhausted to think properly. "You have done things. You have your experiments, and you… you solve cases. You change people's lives, too." 

Yes. Seen this way, he may be right. Still, it is not like I endanger my life every day doing so. In a flash of lucidity, I remember about the case, the one with The Woman, the one I did not have the time to write to Watson, taken too soon by this illness. I extend a hand, pointing to my desk where the locket lies. 

"The King— I solved the case for the King." Watson frowns, probably thinking that I am rambling nonsense. "The King of… Bohemia— look! There was a woman. I have her painting." 

Finally, Watson follows my finger and gets the locket. When he sits back down to my side, he opens it, and sees Irene Norton's face. 

"Quite clever. She is married now," I add with a private smile. Watson must understand how hilarious this adventure was! I must tell him!

Instead of sharing my smile, his face crumbles into an expression I cannot understand. "I am… sorry," he says, slowly. 

Sorry? What for?! Oh— Oh God, no! I am not— I did not want to marry her, for God's sake, Watson, how slow can you be, sometimes!

"No, no, no, no," I mutter. "No women, no women… I— lie with me, John."

Watson's head flies up, his deep, surprised eyes meeting mine. "I beg your pardon, Holmes?" 

"Lie with me," I repeat, but the shock does not fade away from his features. "Not… like _that_. Sleep. There's— there is enough space on the bed… Please."

He looks down, and my stomach rolls on itself, and not because I am ill.

"Please, John…"

"I am sorry, Holmes, I cannot. You're speaking nonsense again. You probably won't remember this in the morning."

I want to cross my arms over my chest, but instead, I roll to my side, facing Watson, and extend one hand to grab his. "Allow… this," I whisper, my knuckles straining under the effort. 

His mouth into a fine line, he looks down to our joined hands. He moves slightly, and before I can say anything, takes my hand between both of his. "All right. Sleep now. You will feel better in the morning." 

"Stay," I ask. 

He looks at me, and smiles weakly. "I will." 

I grab the sheet and tug it above my shoulder, settling my head as comfortably as possible against the pillow. The proximity allows me to hear Watson's even breaths, as I feel the soft skin of his hand against mine. In no time, my eyes flutter shut. 

"I am doomed, John. There is no cure for my suffering."

"Why, Holmes, it is only the flu." 

"Oh," I breathe out, as I feel myself falling asleep once again. "I was not talking about that."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of incest in discussion, although none is committed.

To think that it all started in an innocuous fashion, a day or two after Irene Norton's departure. I had gone into the night for a second time after the fire, trying to observe the flight patterns of moths, until I stumbled into the river. It was the moth's fault, of course, for never could I have miscalculated such a thing on my own.

The water was rather cold and my walk back to the manor perilous. I was entirely fine when I fell in bed that early morning, apart from that little itch at the back of my throat. Mother had forced me to stay in bed for the next two days, over which I assured her that this was nothing at all. Because it _was_ nothing until my body started trembling and my thoughts stopped making any sense. 

To think that Watson saw me in this state! And _undressed_ at that!

He was entirely professional, of course, but I still do not understand why Mother had called him in from London. I do not remember deducing Dr Kent away from Sherrinford, nor asking for Watson. I was not necessarily wrong, per se, because it is always a joy to see him, but I could not have chosen a worst time to ask for his presence by my side. 

I do not remember much about the evening in question, nor about the conversation I know we had. The only conscious memory of the event is waking up at some point during the night (I had recovered enough to make this simple deduction), rolled on my side, my right hand dangling over the bed in a bizarre fashion. Did Watson move me at some point to check on my pulse? Maybe so. Watson was… Watson was still by my side, dutiful as ever over his patient, sitting in the chair near my bed, his legs crossed at his ankles. He was awake, yet unaware that I was as well, as his head was slightly turned, his eyes settled on an invisible point on the floor. I could see that whatever was the subject of his thoughts troubled him a great deal to keep him awake at such hour of the night, as I could deduce from the subtle frown of his eyebrows and the quiet sadness in his eyes. I would have liked to turn and grasp his arm, to shake him from whatever introspection he was plunged into, for it seemed to cause him sufferance. I did no such thing, too exhausted to move, too fearful of what his reaction might be. 

The next thing I knew was that Dr Kent was bent over my bed, pronouncing me nearly fully recovered as Mother was standing in the doorway, announcing that Dr Watson had gone at the first hour of the morning, after seeing that I would safely pull through, demanded back to London to take care of another emergency.

I spent the next few days stuck inside the manor as rain drenched the country, unable to walk far distances at first or concentrate too long on any book that was handed to me. Mother tried to guilt me into writing to Watson to thank him for taking "such great care of me" and therefore "saving my life". Just because she asked me to, I delayed the task for as long as possible, even though my fingers itched to take the quill and write.

I composed a rather long letter, taking the time to explain the case of the King of Bohemia, including all the details of my logical reasoning. I have to admit that I could not send back the letters to the King, of course, but that it was not so much a failure on my part rather than a satisfactory conclusion to this case. Mrs Norton will cause no more trouble, therefore I do not need to pursue her any further.

I send the ten-pages long letter in the morning post, and sit down by the window, violin in hand. It will only be a matter of time before Watson answers me. 

***

Watson is not answering me. 

There must be something wrong with the courier, because there is no logical reason why Watson would deny me an answer. Anderson assured me that the letter did get to the post office, as well as the following ones. One letter every two days, and two weeks later, still no answer. 

If this continues, I shall find a way to escape Sherrinford and go to London myself, whatever Mother says. 

But if Watson has truly been receiving my letters… Why is he not deigning to answer?

Maybe he is busy. He is a doctor, after all. Or maybe, maybe he is not too keen on being my friend anymore. Maybe he was shocked to see me undressed when he helped me get better. It was inelegant and impolite of me, after all. Maybe he was disgusted by my illness, by the paleness of my face and the sweating of my body. Maybe I said something, something I do not remember, that repulsed him profoundly. 

And here I am, trying to find out which words would be the best to solve this long silence. Here I am, quill in hand, sitting by the window, thinking about how much I miss my Watson. 

***

I write a grand total of nine letters, all unanswered, before the evident solution appears in front of my eyes. In search of distraction, I had been working on a case for Lady Selby, who sent me a letter explaining the gruesome demise of her husband, who had been murdered in their home with nothing less than the sword that decorated the fireplace, therefore baffling the useless inspector that had arrived to the small castle a day later. 

Further communication with Lady Selby revealed that she had only been shortly married to Lord George Selby, whom she espoused after the sudden death of her prior husband, August, none other than Selby's brother. The doctor had at the time declared death due to illness, but without further proof, it could as well have been a case of poisoning. The suspects are composed of the household present at the time of Lord Selby's (George, not August) death: most of the staff, Lady Selby's three grown children, and the Lady herself.

I rule out Lady Selby, of course, since she would not have contacted me in the first place to investigate if she had committed the crime. She is truly distressed, and was deeply in love with her husband, not that it served her well, in the end. According to her, most of the staff was already preparing for sleep downstairs at the time of the murder, and none of them had any motive to perpetrate the act, since Lord Selby was quite well liked, and treating everybody well. There could be jealousy involved, or someone from the exterior breaking into the manor, but I refuted those two hypotheses from the lack of proof. My visit to the castle will be the last requirement to put those theories aside, because I strongly believe that the children are at fault here. 

First, there is Miss Elizabeth Selby, the youngest with her seventeen years of age. She is engaged to the Earl of Coventry, which is rather a good match since he has a renowned title to his name, which she does not — but she is said to be of great beauty, and apparently, that is of equal importance to the Earl. Sometimes, people feel like an entirely different species to me. Anyway. She has only met him twice, and Lady Selby has assured me that even if Elizabeth is not too keen on the marriage, she could never have hurt her uncle, now Father-in-law.

Henry is the middle child, who mostly enjoys hunting and the outdoors. He is twenty-two, known for having a temper. He was engaged as of last year, when the lady in question died of sickness. According to Lady Selby, he has spent incredible amounts on hounds and horse races, which lead to severe reprimands from Lord Selby. 

Then, there is August II, the eldest with his twenty-four years, unmarried. Lady Selby describes him as a mostly quiet man, who nonetheless shares his brother’s (and his father's) bad temper. Not for the outdoors, he enjoys reading and writing, particularly to a certain French lady he met on a trip to Paris once. The union had been denied by both August and now George Selby, not that the man seemed to entertain much hope in the first case. 

When my mind is made on the most probable solution to the problem, I write back to Lady Selby, telling her that I will attend a dinner on the 21st of May, during which I will solve Lord Selby's murder. Not to raise the potential culprit's suspicions, I also ask her to invite a greater company that night, one which must include an expert of the human body — none other than Dr John Watson, living at 11, Quay Street, London, and for good measure, his friend, Lord Stamford. 

I let her know in a few words that this particular invitation is conditional to my presence that night.

***

August's room (the son, not the father — noble people are so unoriginal, although I should not condemn it since originality lead to the mistake that is _my_ name), is plunged into darkness as I gently push the door open. I can hear the faint chatter of the guests gathering downstairs, but this part of the castle is utterly quiet. All the staff have been mobilised downstairs, and the family is in the main room, greeting their guests as they should. 

It is the last room I am visiting, after having peeked into Lady and Lord Selby's, and the two other siblings. I found many interesting details, but should my main theory come true, the last piece of the puzzle awaits me in this particular room. 

It is not much different than his brother's, except for the small library containing a few collections of expensive books, and an oak desk where piles of papers along with a few letters are neatly stowed. 

I take a step towards the books when I hear a noise coming from the corridor. I crouch behind the bed, sticking my head under it to watch the shadow of a pair of shoes pass by the room. It stops for a second at the door's height, and my heart clenches in my chest. Without a sound, I crawl further underneath the bed. A moment passes, and then the door, which I did not close entirely, shuts with a clicking sound. 

I let out a breath I did not know I was holding. It was a member of the staff, then, his footsteps not energetic enough to be the ones of the youngsters of the house. I get back to my feet, and finish my quick inspection of the room. 

When I arrive back downstairs, the butler informs me that dinner has been called. This pleases me, since I have told Lady Selby to proceed with the evening's events as if I were not present. There is a place for me at the table, of course, but I needed to first make my little enquiry about the staff and the siblings' rooms. Now that I am sure of who the culprit is, it is imperative that my entrance and following speech shock him into making a confession.

I stay by the door to the dining room for a few minutes, listening to the different, innocent conversations between the guests. 

"Have you mistakenly arranged one plate too much, Mother," Miss Elizabeth asks, "or are we still expecting another guest?" 

"It is not a mistake," I hear Lady Selby say, as she places her cutlery down on the table, signalling that she is done eating. "We are indeed waiting for one more person to join us."

Curious whispers raise all around the table. I had not planned the exact moment of my entrance, but now should be better than ever. 

Without waiting for the footman, I push the doors to the dining-room open. "And here I am, Lady Selby. It seems like I have missed dinner, but I promise we yet have to come to the best part of it."

I pull the chair at the end of the table, in front of the clean plate, where, without doubt, Lord Selby used to sit. A loud clicking sound suddenly makes all heads turn away from me, and for the first time, my gaze acknowledges the sight of John Watson, his ears red with embarrassment as he plunges under the table to retrieve the fork that had just escaped his grasp.

"Sir," the footman says, approaching to retrieve the dirtied fork from his hand, but Watson shakes his hand and rubs the fork against the cloth splayed on his lap. 

"It's fine, thank you," he says, jerking his chin high, gently placing down the fork beside his plate. 

"Sir, I'm only—"

"It is _all fine_ , I insist," Watson insists, with a bit of authority in his voice, trying to preserve what remains of his dignity. Beside him, Stamford gently nudges him with his elbow, the movement so subtle I am sure I was the only one to notice it. 

"I am asking to take the plates away," the footman finally justifies, and colour rises to Watson's face even more, if that is possible. "If you are done, sir." 

"Yes, of course, please do so." He leans back in his chair, permitting the footman to take away his plate. 

I can see in his eyes how he is battling through shame — he is far from being noble from birth, and has now just understood why he was asked to attend this particular dinner. Every time Watson acts, it must be in order to appear well versed in the long and boring traditions of a noble household, which he has never experienced as a child. What a frustrating thing it must be, but he is too good of a friend to Stamford to deny being invited to dinners from time to time. And everybody enjoys the presence of a _real_ soldier at their table, of noble birth or not. 

I certainly do. 

"Three weeks ago," I start, to distract attention from Watson, and it works: all the guests' head turn comically in my direction, as if they are a single being. "Three weeks ago, Lady Selby, here present, contacted me with the request to investigate Lord George Selby's murder." 

A few guests gasp at my revelation, Miss Elizabeth amongst others. The young Henry stands up, his fist against the table. "Mother! What is the meaning of this?" 

"I thought Lord Selby had… accidentally hurt himself. Isn't that the truth, Lady Selby?" a lady asks, clearly one of Lady Selby's good friends. I snort at the remark: suicide is a source of shame for religious beings, and an embarrassment for noble families.

Lady Selby straightens herself on her chair, her face pale, but bravely puts back her son in his place. "Sit down, Henry. Mr Holmes speaks the truth." 

Grumbling, Henry does as told and takes back his place between his brother and sister. Two places down, Watson is still staring at his plate, while Lord Stamford's curious brown eyes are set on me.

"I do, indeed. No, my lady," I say, turning towards the woman that had spoken earlier, "Lord Selby's death was neither a suicide nor an accident, but a murder. He died of a well-placed wound in the stomach, which would have been quite difficult to inflict on himself with a sword this heavy," I say, with a hint of irony. "Or to _accidentally_ fall upon. According to Lady Selby, Lord Selby had been in a good mood for a few months, at least since the wedding, when he had done grieving his brother. There was no sign that he was about to take his life, which would have been impossible anyway, given the scene he was later found in. When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Therefore: murder. And the culprit is sitting at this very table." 

I smile while a few gasps and shivers run around the guests, for the exception of the Selby family, whose members are all sitting quietly. For the first time, Watson's eyes rise to meet my own. 

"Yes, the murderer is one of us. Of course, they had to have a motive for killing Lord Selby, which discards most of the guests present. The staff could have been implicated, but I highly doubted this would be the case in this situation. You see, a sword through the stomach — it is quite passionate, which indicates jealousy, anger, or love, maybe so. It is as clear as water, is it not? The murderer has to be one of the family." 

"Please… do not," Miss Elizabeth whispers, her hand on the necklace around her neck. 

"Why?" I ask, taking a step towards her. "Do you have anything to fear? Or to admit?" 

"Back off, Holmes," August snaps. "You do not know what you are talking about." 

"I will do as I please," I say, "but Miss Elizabeth has nothing to fear if she has done nothing wrong."

There is a fleeting moment where I feel like August is on the verge of jumping at my neck, but Lady Selby interrupts us. "Let Mr Holmes do his work, August. And Mr Holmes, please explain your thoughts." 

August smiles from the corner of his mouth, but does not say anything else. 

"Good. I do not believe that Miss Elizabeth is involved. Oh, of course, she could have taken the sword off the mantelpiece and driven it through her step-father's body, and she had a motive — you are to be wed to the Earl, quite the loveless union, is it not? Did Lord George Selby not facilitate this engagement?" 

Miss Elizabeth nods, twice, her face dangerously pale. "It does not mean that I killed him. I could never." For the first time, I notice that she is younger than me. Not that I would have much pity towards any of the three venomous Selby siblings, but I do understand the injustice in being promised to a man without having much to say in the whole affair. 

"No," I finally let out, "you did not kill him. Miss Lily, your maid, told me that she was with you the whole evening, apart from the five minutes you took to be alone in your room. I doubt you would have the time to run across the castle, take the sword, run to your step-father's quarters, kill him, and be back in time for Lily to enter your room. No, I do not believe you did it. The answer lies somewhere else." I take a pause, looking at my audience. "Do you not see it?" 

No one answers me, and a few pairs of eyes grow wide. 

"But it is so simple, staring you in the face! How can you all be so blind in the face of—" 

"Mr Holmes," Lady Selby admonishes. 

"Oh, come on! Do consider the facts! A noble man dies under mysterious conditions, and his brother marries the grieving widow. He starts making his own decisions as the head of the house, decisions that are not appealing to everybody, such as the engagement of a step-daughter, or the refusal of a marriage with a French woman of inferior class. The nephew, or niece, finally proceeds by picking up a sword and murdering the lord in question. Does it not sound _familiar_? Do you not find that sometimes, life imitates fiction more than fiction imitates art?" 

No, of course, they do not see it. I snort, moving away from my own chair, and towards the siblings, who are still sitting with their backs on me. August seems uninterested in the whole matter while Henry is sitting with his back straight. Elizabeth is still clenching at her necklace, which is beginning to trace a white line across the back of her neck from the pressure. 

"I see that you believe that the murderer must have been quite imaginative to devise such a plan. A dagger or a knife would have been more practical, would it not? No, it had to be a sword, because the murder had already been executed once _before_." 

"You are not making any sense," Henry snaps. 

"I am, but you are not listening. The murder had been planned out beforehand. There is nothing new under the sun. No, nothing new for someone who spends most of his time reading books." I stop behind August's back, and lean in. "You quite like Shakespeare, do you not, Lord Selby?"

"You do not know what you are talking about," August repeats, his tone strained. 

"But _you_ do," I counter with a smile. "You are quite taken with the Bard. I do not blame you. The man is a genius, certainly, but it is more than that. You are devoted to him, to his theatre, to the point when you saw what was happening, that your uncle had gone through with marrying your mother, the seed was planted in your thoughts, had it not? And it is so hard to kill a thought, as satisfying as this one was. If you did it… you could become _him_ , the great Dane, couldn't you? But you are not a dramatic hero, August Selby, you are a foolish murderer."

To say that I did not see it coming would be a lie, of course. It was evident from the tension in August's shoulders that he would do something out of anger, yet I could not help but back away as quickly as possible when he lunges at my neck, dragging me on the floor. 

"You miserable bastard!"

The back of my head explodes with pain, my vision going white for a few seconds. I feel the pressure of his thumbs over my Adam's apple, considerably squeezing my throat, his face crunched in one of the most horrifying expression of anger mixed with pleasure I have ever seen. I am about to kick him where it counts — just like my baritsu teacher had once taught me — but before I can do so, a pair of hands appear on August's shoulders, seizing him with enough force for him to drop his grasp on my throat. The next thing I know, Watson is slamming August's head against the wall, one of his arms twisted in his back.

I cough, scrambling back to a sitting position, and readjust my cravat. "So, do you admit to killing Lord George Selby?" 

"Of course I did!" August spits, his face thrown in a downward position by Watson's strong hold on him. "How could I not kill that bastard, who married my whore of a mother?" 

Watson considerably tightens his hold on his captive. "Watch your mouth." 

"Fuck you, soldier, and fuck this pretentious child."

Before anyone can do anything, Watson slams him against the wall once more, his jaw tense and his eyes murderous. 

"Take him outside," I rasp, before August can sustain intense injury at Watson's hand, "there is a watchman waiting." 

"Stamford? Will you do the honours? I need to check on Holmes and the ladies." 

"Of course," Stamford immediately answers, as a few men, already rose from their chairs, walk towards August to restrain him. 

"I am perfectly fine," I say, but my words get lost in the commotion of the murderer passing from Watson's capable hands to Stamford's. Another lord, smaller, with slicked black hair, seizes one of August's shoulders, yet the man does not try to escape. Instead, he jerks his chin up and looks at his sister. "I am sorry, Elizabeth. Forgive me." 

But Miss Elizabeth only stares at her lap, her hand still playing with the necklace. Slowly, she shakes her head, but August has no time to reply: he is already taken outside of the room. 

The moment he is gone, Watson kneels down in front of me. I avoid his gaze as his eyes are searching for traces of abuse on my neck. After a minute, he gets back to his feet, offering me a hand. "Here, sit down at the table, you will be more comfortable."

I am torn between accepting his hand and the touch of his skin on mine, and showing that I am perfectly capable of standing up by myself. In the end, I turn to my side and slowly ascend to my feet without his help. He has not written to me in a month. I have to show my displeasure somehow. 

I sit down, and accept the glass of water Watson hands me.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," Lady Selby says, still seated, but with her hand on the table covering her daughter's, "for bringing peace and truth to my family." 

"You do not seem very surprised," Watson points out.

I try to hide the smile growing on my face. Watson has always had good instincts.

"No, Dr Watson, I must admit that I had my own suspicions. I did not want to influence Mr Holmes's reasoning, but I believe that a mother always knows best. My children are temperamental beings, you see, something they got from their father. But to say that one of them would be ready to murder — no, that, I did not foresee. Please, Mr Holmes, tell me, has August poisoned my first husband as well?" 

"No," I say, my voice already better. "I believe that the idea was planted after your marriage with Lord George Selby. It was not as much murder than an obsession with Shakespeare's works that pushed him to commit what he did. His mind must have been… unstable, at the very least, since young age, to be impressed by a work of fiction to the point of recreating such an act. I believe—" a fit of coughing interrupts me, to the point that Watson's hand is biting down on my shoulder, handing me the water again. 

"Can Mr Holmes answer your questions in the morning, Lady Selby? He is clearly unfit to do much talking at this moment, and since the matter is not urgent anymore, I would rather take him outside for some fresh air." 

"No, of course, please do. My children and I are going to retreat for the night. We have gone through many emotions tonight, and I need to be close with my family. But please," she tells the guests, "there is food, and cards, and music still to your disposal. I would not want this dinner to be entirely ruined for everyone." 

Lady Selby and her two children exit the room, while the remaining guests sit back down again, just as the footman announces that dessert is about to be served. It is clear that Lady Selby's words were more of an order than a wish, and everybody is waiting for her to be out of sight to discuss what has happened tonight at great length. 

"Let's get you some air," Watson whispers in my ear, and helps me get up. 

The footman leads us to the enormous back doors of the castle, which opens to a large path taking us in the gardens. We walk arm-in-arm for a few metres, leaving the rumour of conversation behind us as we get closer to a fountain, the soft sound of water drowning the noise of crickets and bugs.

I already feel better, against all odds. I only realise now that the air inside had been contaminated by the fireplace and the candles. Here, outside in the gardens, the fresh air is energising. Yet I accord very little attention to my surroundings, rather than to the silence between Watson and I. None of us is eager to break it but someone will have to go first. 

"Better?" Watson finally lets out, a small smile stretching the corner of his lips. 

"Yes."

"This was quite the evening. I should check on Lady Selby on our way back, but she seemed to handle the news well." 

"She is a strong woman," I say, secretly rolling my eyes. Have we regressed to such inane conversations, now? I used to find so much joy in the fact that Watson was not like all of those men who rejoiced in meaningless words.

"She is. And her daughter… Do you think there was something, between her and her brother?" He seems shocked by his own words, and his hold on my arm strengthens.

"Incest?" I frown. "Nothing openly so. He wanted to protect her from marriage, that much is certain. Maybe there were… unrequited feelings, from his part. Not so much on hers, although she cared for him. I don't know. I am not the best at grasping romantic intrigues." 

"But she will not have to marry the Earl now, will she?" 

"No, not now that her family is disgraced. Unless the Earl cares more for her than his reputation. But if Miss Elizabeth opposes it, I believe that her mother will listen, this time." 

"Yes, I think as well." 

A pause. I bite on the inside of my cheek, unsure if I should say something, and if so, what words I should use. 

"I wanted to be angry with you, you know?" Watson finally lets out. "For manipulating me into coming here."

I stare at him, our feet coming to a halt. "I thought you would enjoy it," I admit. "You used to like listening to the cases I have solved. I thought you would enjoy my recounting of the Mrs Norton case, but you never answered my letter." 

_Why?_ I want to say. _Why did you suddenly stop being my friend?_ I am afraid that I was never good with words, and surely expressing this thought out loud will frighten Watson from further discussing the matter with me. He must think that I am, as well as he is, aware of the monstrous thing I have done that has pushed him to distance himself from me. The truth is that I am so unable to sustain any kind of relationship that I have no idea what I could have done in order for him to be repulsed by my behaviour. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe bringing Watson here was a mistake from the start, one which will only widen the crevice that once was pure and gentle friendship. 

Instead of answering, Watson holds my arm tighter, as we start walking again. "I did enjoy it. Just like tonight. You were… quite extraordinary." 

I smile and look down at my feet, just as we approach the fountain. There is a bench a few metres away from the path, following the curve of the fountain. 

"Let's sit down for a moment," Watson urges me, softly.

He lets go of my arm as we both sit down, not looking at each other. I watch the soft rippling of the water at the base of the fountain, my head still slightly hurting from the earlier blow. I breathe in and out, wondering when will Watson stand and walk us back to the castle. As much as I have trouble understanding the nuances of friendship and human reactions, it is quite clear that I have hurt him by making him come here, tonight, and I know this is a mistake he will not forgive me for. Not after he made his decision clear, pointedly not answering my many letters.

And so, as I sit beside him for what I know will be the last time, I try not to think too much about how this feels like an obligatory farewell. 

After a few minutes, Watson huffs a mirthless laugh. 

"The truth is," he says, finally facing me, "that I am a fool." 

I frown, wondering how he has come to that conclusion. "You could never be." 

He chuckles again, although it is a sad, sad thing. "I am a fool, Holmes, for I have fallen in love with a man I cannot marry." 

My throat closes on itself with more force than it did earlier when I had hands around my neck. My heart bangs against the wall of my chest and my hands are moist as I wait for the final declaration to bury all my sudden hopes very deeply underground. 

I close my eyes. "Is it… Is it Harrington?" I whisper. 

"Harrington?" When I look up again, Watson's eyes have grown wide. "No— no, Holmes, it's _you_." 

"Me?"

This time, when he laughs, the smile stays on his face. "Of course it is you! How could it not be you? I was sure you knew! God," he laughs. "I could not have been more obvious!"

I find myself unable to do anything other than blink when Watson's hand covers my own.

"I love you, Holmes, I love your mind and the way it works. I love how you speak, always with such confidence. You are extraordinary, the cleverest man I have ever met. Tonight can only be a testimony of that very fact. You are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid my eyes upon. Every single time I see you, I dare to hope that… Oh, Holmes, there aren't enough words! I love you. _I love you_."

I look down, my heart beating fast. I cannot help but smile, and wonder if this is truly happening. Is it? Or will I wake up in a moment, and this would have all been a dream? 

"You are quite the poet, Watson." 

"You deserve to have poems written about you." 

My heart stops. It simply _stops_. I do not know what to do with my moist hands, nor how to hide away my probably reddening face. Oh, I had never envisioned such a day, such a moment! I should have, because I have no idea how to answer him, how to let him know the depth of my affection… I know that everything is about to change, radically, and forever. It is not a fact that my senses have picked up on, but pure instinct. There is no coming back from such a moment.

"Please, Holmes," Watson says, leaning in, his thumb tracing soft circles on the back of my hand. "I need to know if you feel the same way as I do. If not, I will never bother you with it again, but—" 

"Of course I do!" I blurt out. "I dream of you at night, and think of you from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep. There is no room for anything else. John… I have never known much about love but it must feel like so." 

His eyes glistening, he takes my hand between his own and kisses my knuckles. His lips are soft on my skin, and a wave of sudden desire washes through my body as I understand what I want. 

"You are a marvel," he whispers, softly. 

His gaze meets mine, and I believe that time stops, suspended somewhere in the air between him and me. 

"I would very much like to kiss you," I say. 

He gently lowers my hand on his lap, still between both of his, and leans in. He is so close that I can see the details of his eyelashes, the depth of his eyes, dark-grey under the moonlit night, and without a word, I instantly know that I am being given permission.

I lean in, and press my lips to his.

Never could I describe the impossible emotion that held my body breathless for long seconds. I have never much believed in fate nor chance, but for an instant, I was convinced that all roads in time travelled to this exact moment, just as much as I knew that a single misstep would have made this impossible to happen. 

What a fool I was to take my brother's words as a rule for myself. People who laugh at the face of love have never experienced a kiss… and certainly not a kiss like this one. 

Watson's hand gently lets go of my own to travel to my jaw, angling my face as to let our noses brush in a more comfortable manner. I can feel his lips stretch into a smile, before he starts moving them against my own. A quick dart of his tongue transforms into a shiver down my back, and—

_Crack!_

Both our heads turn at the same time towards the source of the sound, in the trees behind us. It must have been a small animal or something of the kind, because there is nothing to see through the branches. As soon as it happens, my attention quickly turns towards another disturbance in the silent night: two people are walking down the same path we were on just a few minutes ago, laughing and conversing loudly. 

I stand up and take Watson by the wrist, tugging him off the bench and into the woods. When I decide that we have put enough distance between us and them, I turn on myself and catch Watson's face to kiss him again. 

This time, his reaction is not as gentle — his body's alertness transforming into sparks of passion as he presses his whole body to mine, making me stumble backwards under the force of the kiss, until my back is flush against a tree. To keep balance, one of my hands naturally fists itself into Watson's jacket whilst I prop the other against the bark of the tree.

I break the contact between us for a second, in need of air, and Watson's gentle hands come to rest on each side of my face again. 

"Open your mouth, this time," he asks of me, his nose brushing mine. 

I frown — has his keen doctor senses noticed some kind of anomaly when his lips were pressing against mine? Feeling a bit silly, I open my mouth nonetheless, unsure how wide Watson wants it, exactly.

He huffs, not exactly a laugh, and I am about to ask the meaning of this when I feel his mouth on mine. 

And then, of all things, his tongue. 

It's hot and slick as he pushes it into my mouth and I instinctively jerk my chin back with a gasp. Instead of stopping altogether (I would never forgive him if he did), Watson seizes the back of my head with his hand, capturing me so that I cannot escape his dexterous ministrations. Not that I would want to, in any way. 

Soon enough, I find myself moving my tongue as a counter-reaction, which elicits a moan on Watson's part. My knees go weak — how is one supposed to breathe when kissing? — but he is there to catch me by my waist, holding me against the tree, a devious grin on his face.

He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my chin, my— _oh_ , neck, which does not help at all the state of my knees. 

"You are beautiful," he whispers, taking my hand again to kiss it.

"John," I say, quite lost for words. 

" _Sherlock_." 

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead to his. "Say it again." 

"Sherlock, my love."

I surge to kiss him again, throwing my arms around his shoulders as he seizes me by my waist. "John, John—" My heart thumps in my chest the second I realise what needs to be said. "Marry me." 

He stares back, his eyes blown wide. 

"John— I love you. I spend the majority of my life believing I would never feel like so for anyone, but then you found your way into my life in the most surprising ways, and… There is no one else I want to spend it with. Please. Marry me," I ask again. 

My head is dizzy with love and want, and I only then realise that I've done this all wrong, and so I start to bend down to properly get on my knees when Watson grips my arms, making me stand again. "Please, don't—" he breathes out, as if terrified by the prospect. 

My throat squeezes on itself. "Have I misunderstood? Are you not—"

He cuts me off with a kiss before I can finish my sentence. I close my eyes for a brief second, not understanding. Does he want me, or does he not?

"Look at me, Sherlock." 

I do not. 

"Look at me," he repeats, his tone impossibly pleading.

I open my eyes again, to find him smiling. 

"I _do_ want you. I desire you like I have never desired anyone before, and it would be the greatest joy of my life to share it with you."

"Why then—" 

"Please, Sherlock, you know this better than anyone. I do not want you to ask, because I do not want to refuse. I cannot say yes. I want to, but I cannot. Not… yet, anyway." 

" _Why_?" 

He chuckles unhappily. "You are not even of age, my love, you cannot ask." 

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and I do as I please," I say with a smile. "Marry me."

"If I remember correctly, you once said that if it were up to you, you would never marry," Watson recounts. 

"If I remember correctly, I once said that you do not count."

Watson licks his lips, his forehead pressed to mine, and I can see a certain type of sadness shining in his eyes. The kind that comes after having a profound moment of happiness being taken away from a man who cannot do anything about it.

"I cannot marry without my parent's consent," I point out.

His arms wrap themselves around my waist, as he gathers me in a tight embrace. "Do you truly believe your parents would consent to you marrying a man without any money, nor title to his name?" 

I pinch my lips, seeing the truth in his words. "Let's elope, then," I say, seizing both sides of his face. "Let's take the first carriage to Scotland, with a bit of luck we'll marry tomorrow, and we will be back in two days to find housing in London!" 

"Sherlock," Watson— _John_ says, and I already know what's coming. "I know how much you want this, but truly, would you put yourself in bad relations with your family for the sake of this?" 

"Yes," I say, convinced. 

"You do not mean it. Sherlock, my love, I know you resent them in many ways, but you are lucky to have them." I huff. As if. " _Yes_ , you are, believe me. I grew… I grew up poor, and without any family, and you do not want that. I— let's say we do elope, and come back to London. You have no money to your name, your family has probably disowned you at this point, and I have a bit, but not enough to sustain us both for more than a few weeks, at the most. You will need clothes, and not to mention the landlord who will never accept the two of us in a single room. We would be poor and miserable." 

"But we would be together," I counter. "And I can work. People are starting to know me. I can open my own consulting practice."

"And you would be excellent at it," John says. "But I cannot be the reason that comes between you and your family. Between you and a… better life." 

I pinch my lips, before coming to rest my head on his shoulders. Now that I think of it, running away would be enough of a reason for Mycroft to unleash his plans against me, which would ensure that I would never find work in London. "This is _unfair_." 

"I know." 

"What do we do now?" 

"I do not know."

I sigh, pressing my nose against John's neck, just where he smells best. "Maybe," I start, "if I explain it well, maybe my parents would consent." 

John eases his hold on me, to look me in the eyes. "Do you truly believe so?" he asks, with regained hope. 

"How long can they stand between me and happiness? If I persuade them I will not be happy without you, they ought to understand. They are my parents. And… you could come by. By Sherrinford, I mean," I specify, when I see the questioning look on his face. "You are charming, educated, well-spoken, a doctor and a soldier. They like you already. They might get warmer to the prospect of you belonging to the family." 

I can see the moment his mind boggles, for a short instant. He has not thought about becoming a member of my family as much as he desires to be with me. He does not believe he could live in such pristine conditions, to be one of us. To hold a name and a title. Because he would take on the family's name, as dictated by tradition, since I am both richer and of higher status than him. It would not last, of course. Even though we are not exactly as rich as we once were, I still would have enough money to rent someplace in London for us both. We would not stay at Sherrinford. Dear Lord. Of course not. 

"Charming, am I, now?" he says with a grin, trying to hide his prior concern, unaware that I know everything about it. 

"Always."

I kiss him again, nothing as elaborate as earlier, my hands travelling to the front of his waistcoat. 

"It is rather unfortunate, but I must be back to London as of tonight," he says, when we part again. 

"Do you? I rather thought…" 

"Yes?" 

I bite the inside of my cheek. "I have just solved a case for Lady Selby. Surely she would be accommodating enough to provide us with rooms and—" 

"Oh no," John laughs. "I see where you are going with this. She would never give an unmarried couple a room under her roof, in the first place."

"She does not have to _know._ " 

"And secondly, I am not sharing rooms with you before our wedding night." 

I open my mouth, outraged. " _Why_? Do you not desire me… in that way?" 

John's hands return to my face, gently drawing circles over my cheeks. "Of course I do. How can you doubt that, Sherlock, of course I do. But… it is no sure thing yet, and you may find a better offer before that happens and—" 

"Never. It is you, or no one." 

"Still. I am afraid I shall keep you waiting. Our wedding night will only be better for it," he adds, with a kiss to my cheek. 

I know he does not believe in his own words, that there is a possibility in which we would end up together and marry, but I let the matter slip for now. "So what? Are you just going to leave, now?" 

"I have to, unfortunately. There is a carriage waiting for me, I have to be back to London before dawn. I have a dying patient that needs to be checked on." 

"Can't they just die without you?" 

John laughs again. He lets go of his hold on my, and takes back my arm, in a signal for us both to start walking back to the castle. "I would rather not let that happen. I will write to you. And visit, as soon as I can."

"And I will start to try to convince my parents." 

"Good," he says, with a press of his hand to my lower back. 

We walk the rest of the way in silence, contouring the castle until we find ourselves in front of it. There is no trace of the watchman and August Selby — it nearly seems as if all of that has happened in another life, or another day, at least. There are a few carriages waiting in line, and I know what one of them is waiting for me and Lord Stamford to take us back home.

John squeezes on my arm, and I understand that the moment to bid him goodbye has come. For a brief second, I wonder if I will ever see him again. If this — if this will bear its fruits, in one way or another. It is too late for me to kiss him goodbye, and now I rather regret not having it done sooner, when we were still far from the rest of the world. 

"Goodnight, Dr Watson," I say, watching as the candlelight shadows his face. 

"Goodnight, Mr Holmes," he answers, with a slight smile. 

He climbs into the black carriage, closes the door, and the horses are whipped into a quick trot. I watch the hearse for as long as I can before it disappears between the trees after the first turn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duh duh duh duuuuuh! (Also, yes, Sherlock pulls an Oscar Wilde about life imitating art.)


	7. Chapter 7

  


"Mr Holmes, sir, Lady Holmes has asked for you downstairs. Dr Watson has arrived for tea." 

I lean back on my chair, nodding. "Thank you, Tom. I will be downstairs in a moment." I glance out of the window, my gaze sweeping over the grass and the gardens bathed by sunlight and early summer warmth. From the corner of my eye, I notice Thomas lingering by the door. "Is everything all right?" 

He nods once, as if shaking himself from the state he was a second ago. "Yes, of course, sir. Why would anything be wrong?" 

"You tell me," I say, with a pointed look. I am unable to deduce him — whatever is troubling him is not leaving any physical traces on him.

"It's nothing," he assures. "Just common— staff disagreements." 

I roll my eyes at the statement. _Staff disagreements_ are a common euphemism used to designate that Anderson is causing trouble. My parents would never let the man go, any way, for his father had served us as well, a generation ago. Yet Philip Anderson is quite different from the stoic, well-liked Guilford Anderson. If I were the master of this house, I would not have hesitated to have him sacked long ago. I supposed I cannot always get what I want. 

"Provide me with proof, next time, and I shall see what I can do about it," I tell Tom.

He answers me with a nod and a slight smile, before he leaves my room. 

Right. There are pressing matters that need to be attended. No need to leave John too long with Mother, especially now. 

I close the book I was reading and set my quill to the side, check my hair one last time in the mirror, and head downstairs. 

"Sherlock!" Mother exclaims, upon my sight, as I enter the drawing room. "I have quite a surprise for you… Dr Watson is here for tea!"

"Yes, I am aware, since he is currently standing in the room." I grin at the sight of him, impeccably dressed in his grey suit, clearly trying to impress. To be _charming_. He always is. "Dr Watson," I say. 

"Mr Holmes," he greets me with a nod. 

Father enters the room, greets John as well, and we sit down for tea at the small round table, me in front of John. Mother babbles away for minutes on end, talking about everything from the state of the gardens to the latest political news regarding London, which I did not follow but in which Mycroft is most certainly implicated in. John drinks in every single one of her words, nodding here and there, laughing, without being disagreeable about it. _Charming_ , simply, yes. 

Father and I can barely put a word in, and in no time, tea is over. 

"Are you going back to Lord Stamford's, Dr Watson?" Mother asks. 

John nods. "Yes, I am spending the evening there before returning to London tomorrow." 

"Stamford seems to be a good friend of yours, Dr Watson, you've been invited by him quite a few times lately," Father says, his voice low. 

"Um, yes, he is. We were quite good friends, before I had to go abroad, you see. I believe he was relieved to see me come back in one piece, and fortunately, our friendship picked up from where we had left it."

"That is good to hear," Father agrees, genuinely. It is clear that my parents would not have been keen on inviting a commoner at Sherrinford so often, if he was not a doctor _and_ a soldier. And everybody likes _soldiers._

"Do you wish for me to call a carriage, Dr Watson?" Mother asks once we have reached the main hall. 

"No, thank you, Lady Holmes, I would rather walk back since the weather is so favourable for once. Goodbye, my lord, my lady, Mr Holmes," he adds, with a nod to each of us. 

My eyes linger on him longer than what I usually would let myself. "Goodbye, Dr Watson." 

He smiles, and places his hat back on his head before leaving through the door. 

"What a nice man," Mother says, watching as he walks away. 

Father hums in agreement. "Well, I am going back to my study. Do send Anderson my way if you see him, Sherlock." 

I nod, forgetting to mention what Thomas had said to me earlier today. Not that it would have any impact on the current situation, since Father would never act upon rumours.

I climb the stairs two by two to my room, where I fling the garderobe open and select a few appropriate clothing for an outing. Something that is appropriate to run around, without being inelegant. When I am dressed again, I go downstairs by sliding down the staircase ramp, before I am stopped by Mother. 

"Where are you going, Sherlock?" 

"Experiment!" I shout, tugging my coat over my shoulder. 

Twenty minutes later, after having run around the gardens to deceive whoever could be watching me, I finally distinguish the roof of the hay barn among the trees. My heart beating hard in my chest, I turn the corner of the barn, not before stepping in my hurry on a large branch that cracks under my boot. 

"I must admit that I am lost, that much for searching for a short curt," I hear John's voice say, as he sheepishly steps between the two doors of the barn. "Oh— it's you—" he just manages, as I jump on him, my arms circling his shoulders and my lips on his. 

He laughs into the kiss, turning on himself to hide us both between the barn's doors.

"You took your time," he teases, as I bury my face in his neck. I still cannot believe he allows me such things. I feel like there is not much I could do that would be forbidden.

"You found it. Were you followed? Or seen?" 

"No," he whispers, his hands roaming over my back. 

It has been two weeks. Two, insurmountable, long, boring weeks. Not even my most interesting experiment could take my mind off John Watson, and at night, I lay awake wondering how long it will take before I can see him again. Kiss him, touch him. And let's not even talk about earlier this afternoon, when he was just on the other side of the table— 

I let go of his neck, pressing my forehead to his. "Have me," I whisper. His hands are burning holes in my clothing, where they lay, on my lower back. I kiss him. "Have me, here, and now." 

He kisses back, yet it does not chase the smile away from his face. I know his answer before he speaks it. "I thought we already agreed about this, my love." He presses his lips to mine, his mouth soft and warm, and I only then realise that I was pouting. "I thought we were supposed to impress your parents." 

"They will not know about this." 

"What about your omniscient brother?" 

I sigh, gazing down. I had mentioned Mycroft to him, of course, and John is not wrong when he believes that Mycroft would know. He would see it on me, the moment we would be in the same room again. He is loyal to my parents, of course, and has never let pass an opportunity to humiliate me. John is right. 

Why must he always be _right_?

He reads it on my face, because he kisses the corner of my mouth, sweetly.

"You have no idea how much I desire you," he whispers.

I frown, my hands on his waist. "Have me, then." 

"I will," he says. "I will have you, my love, but you deserve the comfort of a bed made of silk, not to be thrown on the first bale in the back of a hay barn. I will have you on our wedding night, and I will take all the sweet time in the world to spread you on that bed and have you in every possible way before dawn." 

I look down, heat pooling in my cheeks, conscious that my face has now taken the most embarrassing of shades. Every possible way? Is John simply being poetic, or truthful in his admission that there is more than one way two people can lie together? I dare not to ask — I hate the gaps within my extensive knowledge, and it is not the moment for such revelations in front of John. Yet it is also clear to me that he dares not claim me should our plan fail. He does not want to make me spoiled goods for whomever I will marry in the end. I shall prove him wrong.

"We shall be more comfortable if we sit," he finally says, dropping his hold on me. 

"Let me," I say, taking my coat off my shoulders and throwing it on the ground, against a square of hay. 

He puts a hand on my arm as he tries to take off his own coat. "No, I should—" 

"No, you should not. You are travelling back tomorrow and you will not have the time to wash your coat at Stamford's. The state of my clothes will not be a surprise for my parents, I have returned home in far worse condition in the past." 

"All right." 

He sits down, carefully arranging himself over my coat, his back against a wall of hay. For a moment, I consider how to arrange myself, before he extends both of his arms towards me. Biting the inside of my cheek, I kneel down between his legs, and turn myself as to rest my back on his chest. John then links our fingers together, and crosses ours arms over my own chest, holding me in a tight embrace. 

The silence growing between us, I turn my head back and to the side, and as if reading my mind, he leans down to press his lips to mine. This time, I take advantage of the moment his lips part to push my tongue into his mouth, mimicking how he had kissed me at the castle. He hums, clearly pleased, and I lose the notion of time as his tongue answers mine. 

Eventually, my neck becomes stiff from our awkward position, and I break the kiss. I turn my head, my hair catching on the fabric of his waistcoat, and tighten my grip on his arms. He kisses the side of my head, swaying me from left to right, and I know that his heart is as full as mine. 

We sit there in silence for a few minutes, as my gaze wanders around the old hay barn, the one the stable boy only uses early in the morning, or at the end of the summer, when it needs to be filled again for winter. The barn's door is open, and a few holes in the wood of the walls paint the ground with spots of radiant sunlight, one of which we lay in.

"I have never kissed anyone before you," I admit, after a while. Will this be the breaking point in our already frail relationship? Maybe John desires someone with more experience than myself. 

"Really?" he whispers, and I can hear the smile against my ear.

I turn on myself, to face him. "You _knew._ " 

"Yes." He takes my hands into his, kissing my knuckles. "One generally knows if he is somebody else's first kiss." 

"Was I that bad?" I snap, feeling humiliated even though John is trying to be kind about it. 

He puts his hands on my shoulders to make me lean back in his arms. "No. It's a skill that can only be helped with practice, and you are a fast learner." I look down, pleased. "And I am very glad that I got to be your first." 

"And my last," I add. I close my eyes, my hand curling into the hem of his shirt. He hums for his only answer. Then: "Tell me about London, John." 

***

Two hours later, I find my way back into Sherrinford by entering through the staff's door. Everyone is busy with preparing dinner upstairs, and so I am not seen as I swiftly make my way towards my room. 

Once in my quarters, I let myself drop on the red armchair in the corner of my room, my fist pressed to my lips. Saying goodbye to John had not been an easy thing, but he has promised to write and to visit again, as soon as possible. For a moment, I wish to have been of low birth, simply to have the freedom to marry — and to bed — whomever I pleased. I would not care about enduring poverty and illness if it would permit me to be by John's side. But Mycroft's threat is a constant cloud over my head, and as much as I love John, I would also like to see London one day and become a true detective within the city.

Gently, I undo the knot in the cravat at my neck, close my eyes, and press the white fabric against my nose. It smells exactly like John, like the warmest, softest part of his neck. He had smiled when I had started to undo his cravat, my whole front pressed between his legs. "Sherlock…" he had said with a sigh, and I had answered with a grin. He watched me as I undid my own cravat, only to start tying it back to his neck. He flushed, and it was quite the lovely sight. 

_"A souvenir," I had said, "to remember me by." He had pressed a hot kiss to my lips._

_"As if I could forget you."_

_I started tying John's cravat to my neck. "For when you will miss me, then."_

_"That, I will certainly do."_

The door to my room flings open, and I let go of the piece of fabric, slamming it into one of the drawers of my desk before shutting it altogether. 

Thomas is standing in the doorway, his mouth half-open with shock. I am certain that he has seen me. 

"Sorry!" he exclaims, turning on his heels. "Forgive me, I should have knocked, but I— you did not announce yourself downstairs and I thought you were still out— sir," he adds, an afterthought. "I'll leave," he says, and I finally notice the reason why he had stepped into my room in the first place: he is holding a fresh set of clothes for dinner, which must have been forgotten by the maids. 

"Stay," I say with a sigh. Now that he has seen me, there is not much I can do to save the situation. "I need to get dressed for supper." 

Thomas nods, and enters the room again, putting the clothing down on the bed. He helps me get dressed, as always, although I can feel the silence is tense between us. It is when he gazes upon my face once more, this time closer, that a slight smile stretches on his face. I turn my head towards the mirror, and see what he has seen: my hair is an unruly mess, and my lips are still pink from what must have been the kissing. I frown, unaware that kissing had such physical repercussions. 

"If I may speak," Thomas says, and waits for my nod, "Dr Watson is a lucky man." 

I snort. "I believe it is the other way around, Tom." 

He smiles, content with my admission. "I'm happy for you." I stare. " _Really._ I wondered when this day would come."

I frown, noticing the lack of formal address, and extend my arms to let him undress me. Thomas has been part of the family since he was born, a few years before me. I guess, if we do not consider class nor title, that he has always felt like an older cousin to me. Watching over me, even when I did not wish to play with him as a child (mostly because I did not play at all, or only alone). His birth had made him by status less controlling than Mycroft ever was, but it is also simply not in Thomas's character to impose. I can feel how the concern in his voice is genuine. He truly _is_ happy for me to have found John. 

"I wish we could exchange places. Things would be easier," I sigh. 

He looks at me, and I can see the surprise mixing with growing concern in his eyes. "Is it serious, then?" Something he had not considered before. What, did he think I was having John behind bushes for my own pleasure, and would then marry somebody else? I am not like other men — it shall be John, or no one. 

"Don't speak a word about it," I say, knowing that I have already revealed too much. He nods again, and is about to leave the room when I halt him. "And Thomas…" 

"Yes?" 

"The corners of my sheets are folded before tucked under the mattress." 

He stares at me for a moment. "Does it displease you, sir?" 

"No. I have noticed the changed, simply, and how it has been occurring daily. The same maid has been keen on being near my rooms for quite a while, now. Aren't the sheets the style of the new young maid— Abigail, I believe, is her name?" 

Thomas, usually unperturbed, flushes, although he does not avert his gaze. 

"You should do something about that." 

"Very well, sir," he says, and shuts the door behind him. 

***

_My love,_

_I cannot quite believe I had you in my arms not so long ago, only to bid you goodbye once more. Every night, before sleep takes me, I lay in bed thinking of you. I think of your beautiful face and of your pale skin, and how deliciously pink it becomes under my touch, my lips. I think of your eyes, blue as the warm waters of the Indian Sea, and how they make me both feel alive and burning at the same time when they set upon me. I think about the moment I stepped into Sherrinford, greeting you with formality, sitting down to have tea with you, having conversation with your parents… I must admit that I am not the best of actors, especially not when asked to tame what I feel for you; yet I enjoyed it, somehow, the wait before the storm, the anticipation of knowing that I would soon be able to claim your lips again._

_Do I need to apologise for this effusion of sentiment? I know I once said to you that there were no words — it is still the case, and I hope you shall forgive my stumbling pen, for I know your taste in music, and I am afraid I do not arrive to the ankle of the romantics._

_I am also aware that you would have preferred a letter about London or my medical practice, but as I am sitting behind my desk tonight, you were the only subject of my thoughts. I will correct this mistake in the following one, I promise, but I dare to hope that this one letter, although effusive, might please you as well._

_I cannot yet confirm when I will be able to return to Sherrinford, but I long to see you again as soon as possible, my love._

_Always yours,_

_John_

***

_My love,_

_I know, I know, I write too much about you, and you tell me every time. Can you forgive a fool in love? I am merely trying to put down on paper the extent of my devotion, not that I think I do it very well, but I do hope it pleases you, even if only secretly. I would give anything to see you read them, to — maybe — witness the blush of your cheeks. I always wish to tease this reaction out of you, for it makes my heart grow fonder, if that is even possible._

_Enough about that. News of London, for your wishes are as commands: I, last week, attended a man who only had pieces of skin and bone for a hand. He did not wish to say what happened to him even though I pressed him, to better understand his situation. Unfortunately, there was no possible way to save his limb, and so I had to saw the hand off him. I have my own opinion on the matter, of course, and had seen similar injuries during my time away in India, where men had been the victim of sudden explosions from mishandling cannon powder and such. This man has most certainly injured himself at work, yet does not wish to say so in fear of reprimand from his superior. I am sometimes saddened by the way rich men treat their employees — surely there are better ways to handle such things. In any case, without both hands, the man will not be getting any work soon. Sometimes I wish I did not have the power to make such decisions, but, well, it was the hand or his life, because infection would surely have followed._

_In other news, Miss Mary Morstan, a good friend from my childhood, has returned to the country. I was quite glad to see her again, but she seemed agitated and did not feel very well, so I did not stay long. She is very dear to me, and I wish you two could meet, some time. I feel like you would get along._

_I have to go now, they are calling for me._

_Always yours,_

_John_

***

_My love,_

_Yes, I did keep the hand, and no, I will not send it to you._

_This will be short, but I want to confirm it as quickly as possible. I am planning to visit Sherrinford on the 12_ _th_ _of June. Can you please confirm the date suits you as well?_

_I count the days until I can see you and claim your delightful lips again._

_Always yours,_

_John_

***

_My love,_

_I am sorry for the delay of this letter. Work has been keeping me far from pen and paper, and the only free hours I have are to get some sleep. I have also found a smaller flat, closer to the practice, and moving my few belongings took longer than I expected. Do not worry: you are still in my thoughts every hour of the day._

_I cannot begin to explain the joy it was to see you last month. Do I still need to apologise for my little… digression, during tea? I know, my love, that your parents were there, but I was so eager to finally touch you… My foot has acted on its own, I am afraid. I must admit that I was rather pleased to see the colour on your cheeks, for I love when you blush this way. Again, I am sorry if I embarrassed you, but as much as you wanted to persuade me of that, I also_ deduced _that you enjoyed it as well. Well, no more in front of your parents, I promised, and I am going to keep it that way._

 _This letter brings good news, my love, Stamford has invited me the 22_ _nd_ _and 23_ _rd_ _of July, for he has something to show me. I can barely let the practice go for two days, but I will be there. And, if everything goes well, I might bring a surprise with me._

_I cannot wait for you to be in my arms again._

_Always yours,_

_John_

***

I see him coming from the window, this time in a carriage that is unmistakably Stamford's. I wonder why he has decided to go this way, when he usually walks when the weather is favourable, as it is today. Is it because of the surprise he promised me? For a single moment, I had believed this mysterious announcement meant the end of our hiding. That, maybe, John had found a way for us to get married, and to leave this dreadful, boring place. But if he rides in a carriage, it must be because the surprise is something physical, and too big to be carried on foot or horseback. 

I do not like surprises.

A few minutes later, Thomas, with his eternal grin that accompanies anything related to our special guest, announces that Dr Watson has arrived. I take a few additional minutes to lounge around the room, not to appear in a hurry to greet him, more for my parents' sake than his. 

I think back to the first letter of him I received, remembering perfectly well how I had opened it with a steady hand, seated at my desk. The content of it had made my heart go fast, for it was the first time that I had ever received a _love_ letter. Such things are forbidden, of course, since we are not engaged, but my parents do not know after all that I am corresponding with someone that is more than merely a friend. 

Oh, of course, I have received correspondence in the past coming from a plethora of suitors, but they all had been bland and badly written, most of them asking for my hand after two or three lines of horrendous metaphors. They did not have the passion and the poetry that flew out of John Watson's quill, that was quite certain. I wrote back to him every time, but I always feared that my words were plain in comparison. I never had much interest for non-scientific literature, and I do not believe I could write as well as John even if I tried. As much as I enjoy reading his words, they would sound wrong coming out of my own mouth. This makes me fear, although he reassured me multiple times on that subject, that he might think of my speech as uninterested, when it is quite the contrary. 

And now— he is here! Back at Sherrinford, thankfully. His last letter had been the one announcing the date, three weeks ago. His letters are slower to come with each and every iteration, and I sometimes wonder if his passion is not simply seeping away. Yet every time he visits, his attitude convinces me otherwise. 

I reign my expression into something more acceptable, and descend the stairs. 

No one in the hall — it means that John and my parents are already seated for tea. The moment I enter the drawing room, all three faces turn towards me, but John is the only one to stand. 

"Dr Watson," I greet him, with a mere nod. 

"Mr Holmes," he says, his smile luminous in my parent's back.

"You made our guest wait," Mother snaps. "Do sit down."

Rolling my eyes, I am about to do as I am told when I notice the plain box sitting on another table by the window, on John's left. 

"Is it for me?" I ask, which makes John huff a laugh, and Mother tremble with rage. 

"It is. Come and see," he says, standing up.

I join him by the window and take into account the size of the box. It is not too big, and it has two long holes cut out to serve as handles. It would certainly have been not very practical to carry it from Stamford's to Sherrinford, which confirms my earlier suspicions.

I put my hands on each side of it, taking a few more seconds under John's scrutiny to try to guess its content before I open it. It is about that time I hear the scratching noise. From _inside_ the box.

"No," I whisper, my heart beating fast in my chest. 

Gently, I pick up the cover of the box, only to be greeted by a flurry of reddish fur and a tiny yap. 

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. 

I pick the pup out of the box, unsure how to hold it — it has been so long, and Redbeard was never this tiny, or maybe it was me who was smaller, I do not know — and cradle it safely against my chest. 

I am about to take a step forward to kiss John, to do, I do not know— _something_ , before I am reminded that we are in front of an audience. 

I can only clear my throat. "Thank you, Dr Watson," I say, not knowing what else to add to this rather plain statement.

Yet when I look up, when I meet his shiny eyes, I know that he has seen, that he understands how much this does to me. I swallow again, small teeth prodding around my thumb reminding me of the present moment. 

"A _dog_?" Mother exclaims, and both our heads turn towards her. "I thought we agreed on having no more dogs at Sherrinford, not after Red—"

"I am not a _child_ anymore, Mother," I snap.

"And although it is very kind of Dr Watson to offer you such a gift, I would have appreciated a word beforehand in order to compose with this new imposition."

John looks up, surprised. "I did write to you," he says. "Asking permission."

"Certainly not. I never received such a letter." 

For the first time that day, Father makes his presence known by clearing his throat. "I did." 

"What?" Mother asks, colour rising to her face. 

"I received the letter, and gave Dr Watson permission to gift Sherlock the dog. I was sure I informed you of it," he adds, sheepishly. 

I roll my eyes. Father has never been the most organised person, but I am happy the letter reached him before it did Mother, because her answer would have been entirely different.

Mother sighs. "Very well. But do tell me, Dr Watson, how did you come across a pureblooded Irish setter?"

It is clear that this is an attack against John's less-than-fortunate status, but he does not waver under the attack. "The pup is from Stamford's new litter. He said that I could pick the pup of my choosing as a token for our friendship." 

"That is certainly kind of him. Sherlock, you will go to Lord Stamford at once and thank him for the gift." 

"I will do no such thing," I say. "The pup may have been Stamford's but the gift was Dr Watson's idea. Thank you, Dr Watson," I repeat, before sitting down. "Let's have tea, now." 

Tea is a quiet affair, Mother too enraged, Father too sheepish and John too uncertain to talk. We sip at our cups in silence, sometimes disturbed by the soft yaps of the little pup running around the table.

The minutes seem excruciatingly long before Dr Watson awkwardly excuses himself — he still wants to appear charming to win their good favours, but I know that this little altercation rubbed him the wrong way, and he is sometimes too proud for his own good.

I go upstairs to change while he leaves, the pup still glued to my chest. 

"Where are you going?" Mother asks when she sees me passing through the doors.

"To take Jack on a walk," I say, and I can see that she is still angry that I am not going to thank Stamford for this. Honestly!

" _Who_?"

I step through the door without further notice, the pup still biting on my thumb, apparently its favoured activity. I wonder if I should let him go on the ground, but then again, he is so small I fear he will lose himself. And I certainly do not want to be late to meet John.

"These are the gardens," I tell the pup. "Mother fusses about it all summer, and lets Father direct the gardeners, only to rearrange everything at the end of the day. They are always like that. I think that Mother believes that if our gardens are well tended, a rich lord will inevitably fall from the sky and marry me. I have not yet understood how the cleanliness of the gardens is linked to men's appreciation of me, but so be it. It distracts her from always complaining about me too much."

The pup gnarls now on my index finger, letting out a tiny growl. "Yes, I know, my family is tedious. Wait until you meet Mycroft, my brother. He could sit on you and break every bone in your body. I will not let him, of course, but he is _that_ big. He will not share anything from the table with you, even if you bite holes through his boots. We do _not_ like him, understood?"

I step under the first row of trees that mark the beginning of the woods, and the pup lifts his head under the change of lighting. "We're entering the woods, now. We're on our way to meet John, whom you already know about, of course. We _love_ John."

I keep on explaining our current situation to Jack, until I reach the barn, where John is waiting, sitting on a square of hay. When he sees me, he smiles as if he has found sudden meaning in the universe. 

"Are you alone?" he asks, standing up. "I thought I heard you talking." 

"Yes, I was talking to Jack." 

He comes closer, pressing a kiss on my lips, smothering the poor pup between us, who yaps with discontent. John presses his forehead to mine and passes a hand over Jack's little red head, who reciprocates his affection by trying to jab his fingers. 

"I should have told you he is male, but we got interrupted earlier." 

"No need, I checked." 

"Jack, then?" John asks, curious. 

"Yes, after Jack Rackham." Whose name was also, incidentally, John. 

He stares at me, bewildered. "The _pirate_?"

"Of course, the pirate, John, do you know any other Jack Rackham?"

"No, of— oh," he says, stopping. "Redbeard. I see." 

I stare at him, trying to understand his sentiment about this, wondering if he thinks this is maybe too childish. He must have witnessed the change on my face, because he presses a kiss to my cheek. "I think it is a wonderful idea." 

I smile and gently lower Jack to the ground, kneeling beside him. 

"I will teach him every possible command," I say. "Do you believe he could be trained into smelling corpses?" 

John sits down against the square of hay, crossing his arms over his chest and his legs at his ankles. "He is a setter, so I doubt it would be his strength, but all dogs have a good sense of smell. Although I am not sure where you would procure yourself corpses to train him."

"You would get me some, of course. Sit," I order Jack, who does no such thing but keeps on wagging his tail. 

"Sit," I order again, but the pup only yaps and runs away to the nearest ball of hay, and hides behind. This was easier back when I had Redbeard. Maybe Mycroft had something to do with it.

"I believe that would be illegal, my love." 

I stand and fetch Jack from behind the hay, and this time, when I put him on the ground, I push on his little bottom to make it stick to the ground. "Sit. Good pup," I congratulate him, only for his little teeth to stick in my finger. "Do not _bite_. Sit!"

"Here," John says, handing me a stripe of dried meat. "This will help." 

"Thank you," I say, my attention returning to the pup. I rip a bit of the meat, and offer it to Jack. "Sit," I say, my voice clear, but before I can do anything about it, he jumps and grabs the bigger piece I was holding too low in my other hand, and sets off with it. "No! Stay!" 

I get up and run after him, nearly tripping over a ball of hay, the pup too small and too quick for me. "I— John!" 

He laughs at me, as if this is the funniest thing he has ever witnessed with his own eyes, before he sees the look on my face, shuts his mouth, and stands up to help. 

We capture the pup after a good ten minutes of running around, laughing and breathless, until Jack capitulates and falls asleep on his piece of meat. I grab him, and when we sit down again, me against John's chest, I set the sleeping pup on my lap. 

"He's a bit of a troublemaker," John says. "Reminds me of someone." 

Well, yes, John, people who go to war are usually troublemakers. I hum, feeling his arms tighten around my waist.

"Pirates, then?" 

"Father has told you already. About Redbeard."

It is John's turn to hum, and I feel his lips press on the top of my head. "I wanted it to be a surprise, but maybe I should have asked first. This is not overstepping, is it?" 

"I meant what I said to Mother, John, I am not a child anymore." 

"No, of course not. I just want you to know that this is not about replacing him. I know he was dear to you and I hope that Jack can only… be a friend. When I am not here." 

My throat feels suddenly dry. Does John believe that I am lonely? I have always fared well, and without many friends, but it is true that I miss him when he is gone. Maybe Jack will be able to help with that. 

"Thank you," I whisper. 

He leans in and I turn my head to kiss him properly, this time, on the mouth. 

"Do you think it will be dangerous, to have Jack in London, with all the horses and carriages?"

John's momentary silence only confirms once again that he doubts our plan to come to fruition. How I would love for him to think confidently of the future. Of _us_.

"Have you truly ever been to London? Or any big city?" 

"John, I already told you that I have not. Not that I did not _try_." 

I can feel a smile growing on his face, even though I cannot see it. "You tried?" 

"Of course," I say, and I know that he will ask for further explanation anyway, and so I start to recount one of my most embarrassing memories. "I was nine when I tried to escape for the first time. Mycroft was home at the time, which led to an argument over the dinner table — such things are common when my brother and I are in the same room. It felt highly unfair how he was able to find work in London when I could only sit in Sherrinford and smell the rot starting to take my head. The argument left me outraged, and I decided that that very same night, I should walk to London." 

" _Walk_?" John exclaims, amused.

"Well, yes, you can already see where my plan went wrong. I made a bag with a few clothes, two apples, and whatever coins I had stolen from Mycroft, and set on my route in the afternoon. I had maps and everything — I am still sure I went the right direction, but walking became a hardship after a few hours. I had imagined that at that point, I would have come across a carriage going the right way. I was to tell whomever they were that I was an orphan, seeking my way towards London where I could find some work, maybe on a boat or something — I was desperate to make Nassau my final destination, to fight with the pirates. My plan failed, due to the fact that most people going that road that day were people on horseback searching for me. I eventually found a smaller road where I was left alone, and when nighttime came, I climbed into a tree and fell asleep." 

John laughs, as if this is the most adorable thing one could have done. 

"Mycroft found me, of course, sometime near morning. I was too tired and too uncomfortable to protest, and I also recall his explosive anger that morning. Too frustrated by the failure of my endeavour, I told him and my parents that I had indeed made my way to London, only to be highly displeased with it and walked back home to where they found me. I believed it was a clever lie."

John keeps on laughing, his body shaking under mine. 

"It made my parents accord me a bit of attention, at least. They sent me to Eton the day I turned thirteen, to the relief of my private teachers, before I realised Eton was another kind of hell altogether, one that I needed to escape. I was more knowledgeable about science than my own teachers, John. I was _thirteen_."

"That does not surprise me," John says.

"I never got to go to university, of course. Mycroft was the eldest child, the one who could get away with anything he wanted. Although it is expected from an heir to inherit the estate and lord over it, Mycroft never had any interest in that. Since my parents deem politics more important than science, he was able to build a life for his own, unlike myself, who has to stay behind and marry." 

This time, my words are not greeted by laughter from John. His hold on me gets tighter. "It seems unfair to you," he says, slowly. "Can't your brother be a politician and still marry?" 

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering if I should explain the situation to John. I know better than to speak of Mycroft's private choices, but if I can trust someone to never speak of them, it is John. 

"No," I say. "For Mycroft has never had any… romantic inclination. Of any kind."

"Ah," John lets out. "I see."

"Are you not going to say something?" I snap at him. 

He lets go of his hold on me, and I turn to face him, disturbing Jack in his sleep. "What do you expect me to say?" he asks me, his brows knit together. 

"Something derisive or sarcastic." 

His shoulders sag, as if coming to an understanding. "Of course not. I also have a friend in the same… situation. It is not uncommon."

I sigh, rolling back my shoulders against him. I weave his fingers with mine, still revelling in the small ways he lets me touch him, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. 

"Do not worry, my love," he whispers in my ear. "I will not tell anyone." 

"Thank you," I say. "I aspired to be like him. I believed — I believed it was a choice he made, to reject any kind of entanglement for the sake of rationality. I thought it made him better. I thought it made _me_ better. I was proven wrong, until…" 

"Until…?" John's voice is as low as a whisper.

I turn on myself again, to witness the blue of his eyes. "Until I met you, obviously. Rationality had always had the upper hand until I met you. I did not believe in friendship, in love, until I met you. I did not believe in marriage… _until I met you_. You threw my whole world to the ground, John Watson, before you bent down to pick up the pieces and rebuild it." 

He presses his lips to mine, and I kiss back, my hand sliding to his neck, his jaw. 

"I love you," he says, his forehead pressed to mine, his hands on my face. "It will never know an end. As long as I will live, my love, you will be the subject of my worship." I look down, hoping I am not blushing too hard. "And who knew, you seem to be quite the poet, too." 

I jerk my chin back, looking at him sternly. "Now, John, let's not get carried away." 

***

I walk back to Sherrinford a few hours later, my heart considerably swollen, Jack by my side. He tires at some point so I pick him up, carrying him the rest of the way. John has a carriage back tomorrow early in the morning, and he wanted to show Stamford his gratitude by attending dinner in his rooms, which deprives me from his presence a few hours more tonight. 

I set Jack back on the floor as I cross the main hall, only to be called by Mother. 

"What is it?" I say, entering the library. She is reading some kind of correspondence behind her desk. The paper looks expensive, and the address seems to have been written by a male hand. 

My fist tightens with anger. 

"We will have a guest for tea, tomorrow," she says, eyes on the letter. 

I turn my back on her as I look at a row of books I have already read. "Good for you," I say, with disinterest. 

"Do not talk to me like that, young man," she scolds me. From the corner of my eye, I can see how she sets the letter down with great care. I know Mother. She is seriously considering what has been written in it. "A lord of great wealth is considering your hand in marriage. He wishes to meet with you before anything is signed."

"I do hope so," I say, as if this is some kind of minor matter. "I believe I am still entitled to my consent. Which he does not have, however rich he might be." 

Mother sighs. She pushes her chair back and stands up. "This is becoming tiring, Sherlock. You _will_ have to marry, you are aware of that already. Why not chose a lord of your liking? I do not ask you to be blindly in love with your future spouse, dear God, but surely amongst the queue of men that have passed through these rooms, amongst all of whom you have deduced and conversed with and inevitably rejected, surely one of them has got your attention. Someone that you might consider developing an _affection_ for, should you marry them."

My hands feel moist. My heart is beating hard in my chest. "There has been one." 

"Then give me a name," she sighs, throwing her hands in the air, believing to have made tremendous progress. "Any name, for goodness’ sake!"

"I wish to marry John Watson."

A pause. The silence stretches between us, for so long that I fear she has not understood my whispered confession. 

"Are you, perhaps… joking?" she asks, slowly. 

I turn to face her. "I wish to marry John Watson, Mother. I have never asked anything of you and never will again — just this. I—" my words choke in my throat, as I search for the words that will convince her. This cannot go wrong, yet I feel myself failing to convey the importance of my devotion. "I love him, Mother, and he loves me, and I have never felt anything like so for anyone before, and I know it is against what you hoped for me, but I promised myself to him and he did to me." 

My hands are flat against the desk, not knowing how I got there in the first place. I am nearly on my knees, begging for the right for us to be together. I never beg. 

Mother looks at me, astonishment in the same blue, piercing eyes that we share, and swallows. "My darling," she says. "You know I cannot accept this, it would ruin the estate. It would ruin our family."

My heart sinks low in my stomach. I know that once Mother has decided something, she will not go back to change her mind. 

"You choose your profit!" I scream, slapping both of my hands on the desk, making a pen roll and fall down on the carpet. "You choose your profit, over _my_ happiness!"

She does nothing, but stare at me. She cannot seriously deny me this!

"Mother!"

"I… will not discuss this further. Tomorrow, you will meet with Lord Moriarty, and I can only hope he will be the one able to make you see reason. You will marry someone who has a title, and money. Dr Watson has neither." 

My throat too tight to say anything, I watch as she walks away, and through the doors of the library. Trembling, I step away from the desk, and bang my fist against the frame of the nearest window. 

After a moment, I set my forehead against the cool glass. 

"Yet he has my heart," I whisper, for no one to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but I've been very busy lately which has slowed down my editing process during the week. I will still try to make next chapter happen as soon as possible, but please take into account that it might come later than Friday. I'm doing what I can! As always, I am very grateful for my wonderful beta, Arcwin (check out her fics, she's got amazing stuff there!), and for your support. I know I'm late in replying to some of your comments, but I promise to reply to everyone! <333
> 
> Concerning the chapter: yep, we're entering angst territory. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Jack's name comes from Sherlock's love of pirates, and from it being nearly 'John', but I also personally chose the name because I've been watching Black Sails all summer and fell in love with the little shit that is Jack Rackham. There, you have it!


	8. Chapter 8

I know, from the moment I leave the library, that I am carefully watched over. And so, as night falls over Sherrinford, I make my escape through the window of my room — something I had done before, of course, but not in a long time, and certainly not while holding a pup in one arm. 

I miscalculate my final jump from the rope I am dangling from, and land in a few bushes, mud dirtying my breeches. I swiftly make my way towards the stables, leaving Jack on the ground to run after me. I strap a bridle on Blaze but not bother with a saddle — I can ride her without, and there is no time to lose. I seize Jack again and jump on Blaze's back before kicking her to a quick canter, her hooves resonating on the dirt road as we leave Sherrinford behind. 

A few minutes later, Stamford's manor appears into view, a few squares of light telling me someone is still up at this hour of the night. My heart squeezes in my chest. Hopefully, the lights still shining in the dead of the night are coming from John's room. 

I jump off the horse and let Jack on the ground again, my breath short, wondering what exactly I will tell John once I arrive. He will be disappointed, of course, although I hope he will not be too angered by my rash decision to tell Mother what I wanted too soon. Yet maybe this is what it takes to make him see reason, to make him understand that the only way we can be together is if we run away, right now, tonight. Blaze will not be able to carry the two of us for long, of course, but I have taken every single coin I have, and it is probably enough to buy a farmer's horse in the first village we pass. Or maybe Stamford will be kind enough to offer to borrow one of his own steeds. Or maybe he will not want to have anything to do with two young men breaking the law and their family's wishes by eloping in the middle of the night. 

I wonder if I should knock on the front door, or if there is some more rational way of doing this. But I don't have the time to stop and think, and it seems like being upfront about what I need is going to get me to it faster. Stamford should not oppose too much resistance. John and I are both adults, after all. 

I pound at the door, hoping with all my might that I will be heard by the staff before they retire for the night. Against all odds, it's Stamford who answers the door. 

"Holmes?!" he exclaims, but his surprise doesn't last too long. "Enter, quickly," he says, with a sigh. 

I follow him to his quarters, my eyes wide open. Watson would be sleeping on the second floor. "I need—"

"Sit down," Stamford tells me, with a tone that doesn't allow for discussion. 

I do as I am told, sitting down in one of the armchairs in front of a warm fireplace. I think back to the night John and I shared in front of the fire in my own rooms, the time I had hurt my ankle. If I had known, then…

"I need to speak to Jo— Dr Watson. Fetch him for me."

I look up, and when I register the expression on Stamford's face, a stone sinks in my belly. 

Stamford leans in, a hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry to say, Holmes, but Watson has already left." 

His hand is the only thing that prevents me from standing up, as I exclaim: "What? He told me he would only leave in the morning! I need to see him, Stamford, it is most urgent."

Stamford's lips press together, his thumb moving small circles on my shoulder. Why is he trying to bring me comfort? I need to see Watson, not for Stamford to play nannies! "He left two hours ago, I am afraid to say. He was urgently called back to a patient's bedside. A friend, I believe." 

When I recall that fateful night to myself in the future, I will never remember what happens over the next few minutes as I stare down my feet. The next thing I am aware of, is Lady Margaret's hands on my shoulders. 

"Oh, Holmes," she says, her tone full of pity. Hateful.

I let go of my hair — I did not know I was tugging it this hard — only to push her away. 

"Your Mother did not consent, didn't she?" Stamford asks, standing by his desk, a few metres away. 

I look at him, puzzled. Then: of course. "John told you." 

"Yes, he did. He is a good friend and sought to confide in me. I respect both of you, Holmes, and I will never speak a word of it to anyone else, apart from—" he winces, his eyes on Lady Margaret. 

"Oh, please," she says, "I would have to be blind not to have known. You look sad," she tells me, as she reads the question in my gaze, "when you think he cannot see you." 

"Well, then, you are amongst friends, Holmes," Stamford says, "if you wish to talk about it." 

I stare at the floor. I do not particularly want to confide in either of them. "There is nothing to say," I declare as I stand up. "I have to go back."

If John left two hours ago, it is impossible that I should catch up with him, even if his carriage is slower than my horse. He must be nearing London. And I am not entirely sure who he would choose, between his duty to help the sick, and me.

I must devise a plan, or let the matter go completely. Stamford and Lady Margaret cannot help me with the first part. I need to do this alone. 

Without being held back by either of them, I pick Jack up and return to Sherrinford, silently letting Blaze back in her stall, before I climb the rope back into my room. Strangely enough, a few papers appear to have been disturbed on my desk. Mother, probably, seeking some kind of information on my entanglement with John. There is nothing to find: his letters to me are safely hidden in a place she will never find them.

Not that it matters anymore. 

***

_John,_

_I am afraid that this letter brings unfortunate news. Just as you left for Stamford's, Mother informed me that I would receive the visit of yet another suitor to ask for my hand in marriage. Her power over my own choices was too much to bear, and anger won over rationality; I confessed our love and desire to marry, and as you must anticipate, she did not receive the news very well._

_I know I acted rashly when I should have waited for her to be in a better mood, but I found myself tired of her hold over my life and liberty. She will not consent to our union, and Father will never act against her._

_It does not mean that our liaison comes to an end, John, simply that we must act in consequence. I remember you opposed the idea of eloping, but I am rather afraid it is our only choice, now._

_Please, answer quickly, Jack and I await news from you._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

***

As planned, Lord Moriarty arrives in the afternoon. He is waiting in the drawing room, standing by the window when I step between the doors, Jack following me. 

I have, of course, heard a lot about Lord James Moriarty. Although his name descends from a long tradition of nobility, the family had lost all money when Lord James Senior, his grandfather, had gambled everything away. I remember hearing news, years ago, that the old man had died suddenly, even though he was old and senile, with the reputation of a brute. I have never met Lord James Moriarty myself, but heard a lot about him as he, somehow, reconquered great wealth for the Moriarty estate. He is, today, one of the richest lords of the country. 

I stare at him, as he stands by the window. He is shorter than me, but not as much as John. I believe he could be an attractive man, if his hair were not so greased, and if the look in his eyes did not resemble a viper looking at its prey. He is impeccably dressed, fashionable, and I find myself not being able to read too much about him. Jack, who was yapping and running around my feet, has stopped moving.

I dislike the man instantly.

"Ah, Mr Holmes," Lord Moriarty says, as he approaches me. "I have heard quite a lot about you."

"Likewise."

He bows his head, and I salute him in return. 

He glances at the butler, who has been standing by the door. "Maybe we should continue this outside. Privately." 

I do my best not to sigh too much, but then again, agree to his request. Here, where walls have ears, I am expected to be polite. In the gardens, not so much. No one standing behind the windows has the skill of reading lips, as much as they have tried.

"Does it must follow?" Lord Moriarty asks me once we are stepping outside, glancing at Jack as if he were a diseased animal. 

"He will follow where I go," I say nonchalantly. Is the man intending to _court_ me, or not?

Lord Moriarty groans, seemingly disturbed by the dog. I keep an eye on Jack for him not to wander off, or approach Lord Moriarty too much, but Jack seems too well aware of the man's bad temper to keep close.

We walk in silence, until we reach the gardens, where the blue hydrangeas are heavy with perfume and swarmed with butterflies and bees. Yet, I cannot forget the looming presence by my side. 

"Well, we are alone now," I finally say, wanting to place the first word. "What matter needs to be discussed in such privacy?" 

"An alliance," Lord Moriarty says, "between both our families." 

"Marriage, you mean," I correct him, annoyed at his way of speaking. 

He laughs, his shoulders shaking, as if that was the most preposterous suggestion.

"Dear God, aren't you a sweet little thing," he sneers. "If you imagine for one second that I will go down on one knee, promising you eternal love and whatnot, you are more boring than I originally thought."

"Then I shall not disappoint you," I reply coldly, "for I have no desire for romance nor marriage, especially if they come from you."

A slight smile stretches the corner of his mouth, as if finding satisfaction in my words. "There it is, the man without a heart, the one I was promised to find in this desolate corner of the country." 

I huff, with irony. It is evident that Lord Moriarty imagines himself as the best comedian, one that wears such a fine mask that it becomes invisible on his face. A penchant for the dramatic, that he certainly has, spurring words as if we are on a stage, trying to make the audience tremble with fear. He does not fool me. No one can, after having spent twenty years under the same roof as Mother.

"No, I have heard a lot about you, and I know that you and I share… a superior mind. I have seen it in action, at Lady Selby's, when you solved that little case. You never noticed me, of course, but I watched closely as you made your deductions, as your mind arrived to the inevitability of the Shakespeare solution. I knew, of course, before yourself, but I did want to see how you would play it out. I see myself in you, Holmes, only a younger, more inexperienced version. I know to which heights your intellect could grow should it be… properly cultivated." 

"By you, I suppose?" I say, with a roll of my eyes. 

Lord Moriarty hums. "Obviously, yes. I can offer you glory, Holmes. I can carry your mind to places you would never have thought to visit in the first place. I can… elevate you. I can make you into the man you dream of being." 

"And how exactly would you achieve turning my poor, uncultured self into a genius, pray tell?" I snort.

"I will teach you everything I know. I will transform your mind into the most precise machine. And like all machines, you will not be able to live for anything but the purpose you were created for. There shall be no… romance, no entanglements. Nothing that might tie you to the flesh you inhabit. You live in purpose of solving problems, Holmes, and I shall feed them to you, one by one, every day for the rest of your life. That is what I have come to give you. You will not be bored for a single day of your life."

I stop walking, and waits until he turns to face me. "You want me to be your instrument," I say, deducing him. "You do not want me to become more clever than you believe you are, yet you intend to use me for your profit." 

"Oh, most certainly," Moriarty admits, as if it were not a horrifying prospect in his mind. "I saw what you did at Lady Selby's. I know how you saved the good old king of Bohemia. Imagine what secrets we could discover about England's most-loved lords and ladies with that little trick of yours. How they would open their purses and hand in the money in order to keep their secrets safe. _You_ are the key to all of these closed doors, and I will come to know how to wield it. I will make you the most powerful and the richest man in England, Holmes."

His hand grabs my arm as he finishes his monologue, and I quickly shove him off. "Are you suggesting _blackmail_?"

"Don't sound so shocked, sweetheart. You would be entirely safe during the whole process. You'd stay in the manor, of course, whilst I would extend our little business in London, I would need someone to keep the estate running. You could purchase yourself all the laboratory equipment you shall desire, with the money. We would be _unstoppable_."

I close my eyes for less than a second. The prospect sounds interesting, of course. Boredom was nearly the end of me as I grew up between the four walls of Sherrinford. Yet boredom followed me at Eton, where I thought I would be busy and learn everything there is to know. Evidently, that was not the case. Is Moriarty what will soothe the misfiring of my mind? 

I imagine it, me, as a machine. I had for the longest time thought of myself without a heart. I lived through Mycroft's words, never caring, never engaging, to never be hurt again, not after Redbeard. All lives end, all hearts are broken. Should I become what Moriarty promises me, I would not only end the precarious state my family has sunken into, but I would become a detective, something I have worked years for. I would be the most intelligent man on Earth. 

But then…

 _John_.

John, John, sweet John who is waiting for me, who is waiting for my hand, for my soul, who has promised me to find a way to love me into eternity and beyond.

If I had never cared, I would never have found him. If I had never smiled, he would have never smiled back. If I had never kissed him, I would have missed everything of importance on this Earth.

And here I stand, at the very edge of a broken heart, knowing very well that he might never return to me, that Mother shall never agree, and that our love might never find itself a conclusion. I am most aware of that, yet I cannot take my feet away from the fine line of the ravine in front of me. 

Moriarty might promise me a painless life, but… If I do not pursue love, how much knowledge will be forever lost?

Pain, fear… is it not all the very proof that, against all odds, there is a heart at the centre of my chest? I know it is there, for I have felt its fluttering beats when John's arms were crossed over it.

I clear my throat, decision taken. "You do not desire to acquire a husband, Moriarty, but a slave. I refuse to be a part of such a dishonest initiative."

He turns on his heels, his face suddenly enraged. He steps closer, nearly enough for our noses to brush, should he be taller. "I am not giving you a choice, you impertinent child. I can make you into something, Holmes, just as much as I can ruin _you_."

I step forward as well. "Are you _threatening_ me?" I ask, not letting rage dictate my body nor my words.

"You are a smart man. Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." 

It is this moment that Jack chooses to intervene, yapping and tearing his small teeth into a buckle of Moriarty's boots. "Get your— rat away from me!" he yells. He shakes his ankle hard enough for Jack to let go, but Moriarty does not stop there and kicks the pup hard enough to send him rolling backwards. 

Before I am aware of my own movements, I have taken Moriarty by the collar and rammed him into the nearest wall. "Then possibly my answer has crossed yours," I bite out. "You do not scare me, you do not scare my family. I do not care for your rank or your wealth, nor for your threats. I would never marry you, not even if you were the last man standing on Earth."

I let go of him, throwing him to the side. He catches himself before he can fall to the ground, a smile still on his face. "You will regret this." 

"Leave," I snap. "I never want to see you again." 

He nods, saluting me as if nothing had happened at all, and saunters back down the path towards his carriage. I am pleased that he does not make his way inside to complain to my parents, just as I am pleased to hear the carriage door closing with more force than necessary. 

The moment he is gone from my sight, I go to pick Jack and kiss his head. He seems just fine after a quick inspection, and is already trying to bite the fingers off my hand. 

I make my way back into the manor, bracing myself for Mother's reaction. Not that I speak a word to her, since what happened yesterday. 

***

_John,_

_I met with Lord Moriarty, the day after you left. The vile man wished for my hand, and I refused him, of course. He is only further proof that I should not settle with anyone but you._

_I hope the silence on your part is only because work is hard on you, and you are too tired at night to write back. I must ask you to do it nonetheless, at least a few words, just to reassure me about your current state of mind._

_Write back soon._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

***

_John,_

_I have not received any news from you since last week, and I cannot help but think that you are too disappointed in me to write back. I am aware of my failings, but I wish to repair them by offering a different solution to our problem. I have yet to think of one if eloping is truly so abhorrent to you, yet it would be the easiest way to achieve what we so desire._

_I love you, but you already know that._

_Write back as soon as you can, or I will think some kind of evil has befallen you._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

  


***

_John,_

_Please._

_I have never begged, but I beg of you to pick up your pen and compose a few sentences. If not to reassure me, to say how much you hate and abhor my sight. At least, my mind would be settled._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

***

_Dr Watson,_

_It has been a month since I last received news from you. I am sorry for all the hurt that I caused. I hope you will be able to forgive me, one day._

_Always yours,_

_Sherlock_

***

I wake up to Jack's yaps, as he tugs on the sleeve of my gown, ready to go outside and stretch his legs. I pick him up gently as I sit up in bed, rubbing at my eyes with my other hand. John was right, I think, when he promised that Jack would be a friend in times of need. Maybe, somehow, John had anticipated our downfall. Maybe he knew, even, as he stood by the box containing the pup, that it would be the last time we would be together. Sit together. Kiss. 

"Stop it," I whisper to myself. There is no need to be this dramatic. Maybe John has simply had a lot of work lately. He has not written in a month, and during our previous correspondence, his letters would sometimes have a few weeks in between. Nothing as long as this, but it is not terribly out of character. What is, is that he does not answer my pleading. Maybe he truly has stopped caring for me. It would like to appear seemingly unaffected by the whole matter, yet I cannot help my heart from squeezing in my chest every time this prospect makes itself known in my mind. 

"Mr Holmes?" Thomas says at the door, pulling me out of my head.

"Enter," I say. 

I stand up from the bed and set Jack on his feet, who goes to greet Tom by wagging his tail so hard his behind wiggles from side to side. 

"Good morning, Mr Holmes, Jack," Thomas says to both of us. 

Without answering, I go to stand in the middle of the room, as Thomas prepares my attire for the day. He dresses me in complete silence, his fingers slightly trembling, both of which are uncharacteristic of him. But then again, there is a bruise on his face from when he fought Anderson, a few days ago, over Anderson's new suit or something of that kind. I must admit I am not the most aware of what is currently happening in the household, as I spend my days deep in my Mind Palace, trying to achieve a solution that would permit John and me to marry. The results are inconclusive: if we wanted to marry in all legality, John would need to have enough money to convince Mother he can save the estate, and hope that she will accept it even though he lacks a title to his name. How to get that money, I do not know. At least, I do not know how it would be possible to do so in total legality, and I am not prepared to become the blackmailing master Moriarty claimed to be. No, it would never work with John's sense of morality and justice. Maybe I should not have been ready to dismiss the King of Bohemia, and asked for a bigger payment after getting the threat of Miss Adler-Norton off his back. Should John and I work our separate ways every day, we would amass enough money to save the estate at the very end of our lives. Sherrinford would have been long gone, and I admit that I am rather impatient to tell him that these hard times are over, and that we can love each other freely. 

If he still wants me, that is. 

"You seem jittery this morning, Thomas," I notice, as he finishes buttoning me up. 

"It's nothing," he says, yet he dares not look me in the eye. 

I sigh, letting the matter go. I cannot spend my days deducing the whims of the staff. Maybe it is to do with Agatha, the maid. Or was it Abigail? I cannot be bothered to remember. Still, Thomas executes his task perfectly, as he does every day, whatever his moods might be.

I thank him when he is done, and head downstairs, Jack on my heels. He still has a bit of trouble with the stairs, and so I wait patiently for him, unwilling to pick him up and treat him like a baby. He must learn. There will be a quantity of stairs to vanquish in London.

"Sir," the butler greets me, as I step into the dining room.

I stop and frown. His face is like ash. "Are you attending a funeral this morning, Mr Wallis?"

What his answer might have been, I will never know, for my attention turned towards my parents, seated at the end of the table. Unlike most mornings, Father's newspaper wasn't in his hands, but spread wide on the table. Both are closer than ever, shoulders touching, swiftly discussing some matter — something that had appeared in the newspaper, of course. 

My throat tightens on itself when Mother raises her head, suddenly aware of my presence. Father looks away, a strange expression on his mouth, something that I have not witnessed before.

"What is it? Has somebody died?" I say, with irony. "Of course not, neither of you is wearing black. Yet this is clearly bad news, from how you are staring at me. Bad news from the paper, then? A bit unconventional, but I will take it. It cannot be political, unless war has somehow been declared overnight without any of us—" 

"Sherlock, please sit down," Mother says, cutting through my babbling. 

"I will not. Tell me what is wrong." 

"Sherlock, sit _down_." 

"Violet—" Father interrupts. "This is not the time." 

I blink. If Father has something to say, then it means that the matter is grave. 

Mother breathes in, clearly searching for the right words. They do not want to tell me. This is about _me_.

I place my palms on the table. "What is wrong?" I ask again, spacing my words slowly enough for them to understand. 

"As you know, Mr Wallis is the first to read the newspaper downstairs, every day. Today, he informed us of some news that had been printed in one of the columns. The _marriage_ column. I understand how you will react to this news and I need you to—" 

I snap at her. "Mother! Tell me!"

"It seems that Dr Watson has just announced his very recent marriage to a certain Miss Mary Morstan." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Can I remind you that there is a happy ending at the end of this fic? And for those who have been wondering, I'm estimating the entire thing to be 16 chapters long. When I will be sure of the chapter count, I will add it to the tags. :) As always, thank you for your comments, even if I take some time to reply they're always incredibly lovely and motivating! <333


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter contains the beginning of a dubcon situation that doesn't go anywhere. If you want more details about it, I wrote down where the scene starts and what it contains in the end notes.

There are a few things I can admit not to understand, but it would be a great understatement to say that I understood anything about this. 

***

Thomas came in, today, to open the windows. He said that my rooms are too stuffy.

***

Maybe there is nothing to understand. Or maybe I should have known that day would come. Why choose me? Over anyone else in the world, why choose me?

He did.

It lasted a few months. 

And then, he did not. 

***

I can hear them, outside my room. 

I am tired, but it does not mean I am deaf. 

"You know him. He is being dramatic." 

"It has been five days now, this is not him being dramatic, Violet." 

"Nonsense. You cannot say he did not see this coming — this would have never worked. I am not saying it was not cruel, but Dr Watson certainly came to his senses and did the right thing. For himself, at the very least." 

"Why? Why could you not let them marry?" 

"Dear God, Siger, have you lost your senses as well?"

"This is our boy, Violet! Do we not wish for his happiness?" 

"I do. But I also need to assure this family— _your_ family, a future! Do _not_ blame this on me!" 

"To hell with that! We would have managed. Of course we would have. And if not, we could have sold the estate, and bought something smaller. It is Sherlock we are talking about. Sherlock, who never had many friends, and we refused the only one he made!"

"Don't. You are not seriously considering your words, Siger. Sherlock will be fine. This is only a young man's whim — everyone goes through it. It was never meant to last." 

Their hushed voices disappear in an argument of whispers I do not care to follow anymore. 

After it, Father's footsteps shuffle outside of my door. 

He does not enter.

***

_"Of course he has not." I step forward, my eyes on the newspaper. "Do you imbeciles suddenly forgot how to read?"_

_I grab the paper, nearly tearing it apart, to show them how they are wrong. How impossible it is._

_And yet:_

_MARRIAGES_

_WATSON and MORSTAN — At Brighton, August 23, by Rev. D. R. Austin,_

_Dr John H. Watson, of London, and Miss Mary L. Morstan, of London._

***

I do not remember much about what happened after that. I recall lying in bed, listening to Jack's little claws dragging on the floor as he tried and tried to jump and join me on the bed. When he finally did, I snapped at him, and he fell down. 

My heart had squeezed in my chest as I bent to pick him up, pressing kisses to his little head, afraid that I had alienated every single person of importance in my life. 

He has barely left my bed since. 

I think Thomas lets him out from time to time to do his business. 

***

He told me about it, in the barn. 

He told me, and said I was one of the few people alive to know. 

John _Hamish_ Watson. 

There are many John Watsons marrying all kinds of ladies in the marriage column, but there is only one Dr John _H_. Watson of London who has a certain Mary L. Morstan as a good friend. 

She must know as well about his middle name, now. 

***

"If it would make things better, sir, we could take all of his letters and burn them. Either in here, or build an enormous pit outside."

"Leave, Thomas." 

***

"Good morning, brother mine." 

I open my eyes, suddenly aware of the presence at my back. I did not care to deduce it earlier, as I hear the heavy footsteps cross my room. My jaw tenses. Mycroft had no intention of visiting any time soon, which means my parents asked him to return home, for my benefit. Humiliating. I do not want his pity.

"I have missed you at breakfast, but then again, I should know better than to expect regular sleeping patterns on your part." 

"Leave me alone, Mycroft. Stop pretending that you care," I groan, turning my head to hide further in my pillow. 

"No," he says slowly, his voice cold. "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."

I want to huff, and hit him at the same time. How many times did I hear that dreadful _maxime_ of his? "Not that you would know." 

A pause. "No, indeed. Yet I do hate seeing you in this position, brother mine. I have never known you to be so… defeatist. You were always more the type to transform your sorrows into something stronger. In the past, should anyone have betrayed you, you were rather to work hard to make them hit the dirt rather than fall to the ground yourself." 

A silence. I deign not answer such idiocy. 

"There is nothing sweeter than revenge well served. Do not let this affect you too much, or he will have won." 

Again, I do not answer. 

Mycroft sighs, and stands up, ready to leave. "You are known to be contrary, Sherlock, and so I will not ask you to stop behaving like a child and grow up, because you will only want to melt further between those sheets and become a pillow yourself. But _do grow up_. And you should take a bath," he says, just before closing the door. "You smell." 

***

I am reading one of the books Mycroft brought from London, a new treaty written by a relatively unknown scientist about his experiments surrounding the growth of plants, when she knocks at my door. 

Jack, who is lying on my legs, raises his head, and huffs.

It has been a week and a half, and against my own desire to resist Mycroft's words, I had taken a bath the day prior, the smell and my sheets becoming too unbearable to stay in this condition forever. I started to pick up reading as well, when I found the energy to do so. Thomas had been good at taking Jack outside when needed, and he refrained from further comments like the one he made in the early days. 

Mother, for once, had not visited my bedchambers since the fatal day. It is as well, because I hate her almost as much as I hate him. 

And then, I find that I could never hate him, even if I tried. 

"Sherlock?" she asks, from the other side of the door. Good to know that she at least respects my privacy. 

I close my book and set it on the table, and turn on my side to face the window, my back to the door. 

Unsurprisingly, Mother enters anyway. So much for my privacy.

Her steps echo on the wooden floor as she walks towards me, and the mattress dips slightly as she sits down. Silence surrounds us, and I am not going to be the first one to break it. I hold her responsible as much as I do him for what has happened. Should she have not refused the marriage, he would not have sought another person to love. It is evident Mother cares more about money and reputation than the happiness of her own son, and I will never forgive her that. 

A moment passes. And then another. 

"Sherlock," she says. "It seems that I have made a mistake."

I groan and turn further away from her. I do not care about her little epiphany. She is too late.

"I believed I was doing the right thing by stopping you from a commitment you might regret later on." 

I sniff. " _This is only a young man's whim_ ," I quote her back, " _it was never meant to last._ " 

I can easily imagine her face fall when she understands I have heard that conversation. "Yes, I believed that. Please, just for an instant, imagine yourself in my position. You asked me to consent to your marriage to a man you barely knew. Yes, a man without a title, but more so, a man without money who could not have provided for you. You are so young, Sherlock, you might not think so, but you are, and young people are known for passions that do not last. Even the most burning ones know an end, and you would have met that end in absolute poverty." 

"So what," I snap, sitting up on the bed, my hands in two fists. "I would have preferred to marry someone that I loved once over someone I never will."

"And live the rest of your life in poverty?" 

Sometimes I do worry that Mother is unable to think properly. "We would not have been poor if you _consented_ to it."

A pause. "Sherlock," she finally says, dread in her tone. "I had to make some hard… decisions, to make this family survive, to keep the estate running. We are currently… more in debt than you can imagine." 

I frown. She has never bothered giving me this information before, and it is not something I had deduced for myself. Mother's work had always been a source of disinterest to me, to the point that I remained purposefully blind to it, especially when it called for me to marry a stranger. I knew our finances were not the best for a family of our title, but I did not know we _owed_ money. I always believed Mother to be too proud for that kind of deal to have taken place. Not that it makes me feel better about my own situation, in any case.

I turn towards her, facing her for the first time. "And so your plan is getting back that money by selling me?" I knew that since the beginning, of course, but now I see that I am the one that has to answer for Mother's mistakes, to face Mother's consequences. "Why can't Mycroft marry? Why must I be the one to sacrifice everything I have, everything I am—" 

"Sherlock, you misunderstand—"

"No, Mother, I understand perfectly. Mycroft is getting old and undesirable. This has never been about respecting our choices, respecting who we are, this is about selling my virginity to the highest bidder—"

"Do _not_ talk like that to your Mother!"

"—like some kind of common whore?"

She stands up, and I nearly believe she is about to hit me, although she has never laid a hand on anyone else before. She turns her back on me, not before I witness the flush spread across her cheeks and neck.

"What if I told you that I shared… congress with— _him_?" 

"Have you?" she asks, in a whisper. 

I pinch my lips together, unsure if I should continue the lie. I am an excellent liar, but a mother always knows best, and they would have to call a doctor to check — something which I am not particularly keen on. Now, I wish that he had lain with me when we had the chance. Only to be done with this, with all of this. Then, Mycroft would have allowed me to find some place in London where I could start detective work. Father is right, the rest of the family would have survived, selling the estate for something smaller. It would have been possible. It _is_ possible. 

My lack of answer is an answer in itself. I could never fool Mother on something so important. 

"All of this," Mother says, still turned away from me, "has been for your benefit. For your happiness, for your stability. It would have not happened right now, but in time, you would have seen how right I was. How right I am. People like you and I, Sherlock, do not marry people like him." 

I hit the sheets with both of my fists. "I love him!"

She turns to face me, her eyes red and shiny. "And he does not love you, Sherlock, he never has!" 

I gape at her, both shocked by the emotion showing on her face and by her words. I am not an idiot — I am aware that Dr… that he chose to marry Miss Morstan, but surely there must be a rational excuse underneath it. Isn't there? He loves me. I can hate him for his actions, but I am sure his feelings for me have been truthful. 

Mother takes that slight pause in our argument to sit back down on the bed, her hands smoothing the bumps in the sheets, something she used to do when bidding me goodnight, every night. "I am not… I am not underestimating your feelings for him, Sherlock. If you say that this is more than a passing thing, then I believe you. If you say that this is a unique passion, something that ought to happen only once in a lifetime, I believe you. Let me be clear on the fact that I do not believe _him_ , that I do not trust him. How can I, after he hurt you so?"

I open my mouth, resolute, but she cuts me off before I can place a word. 

"I am not saying that he was in it for the money, or for the more… carnal aspects of such a relationship. He may have had genuine sentiment for you, but in any case, they did not last long enough, and were not strong enough to see it to a resolution." She sighs. "I was seventeen when I had my first love, and just like you, my feelings were towards a common man, the son of a farmer who lived at the next village. He declared to be as much in love with me as I thought I was with him, and as young sweethearts do, we would meet behind our parent's back, dreaming of escaping and marrying each other anyway. One day, just as I was about to join him at our usual hiding place, I found him talking to another one of his sweethearts, the daughter of a minor squire. I heard them plotting, him telling her that he would marry me, and that he would use his sudden wealth to gift her anything she desired, anything she asked for. It was clear that his true love lied with her and not with me." 

I sigh, wondering what any of this has to do with my own situation. 

"The point I wish to make, is that when I first met your father, I did not think much of him. He was good-looking, but not as much as my first love. He was moderately intelligent, yet not as cunning as my first love. I was prepared to hate him, for your grandparents were very much decided on my marriage with him, yet, I find my affection for him growing, day after day. It had not happened the very first time I met him, and I was unhappy the day of our wedding, but then, as we shared a single roof, I started to see him under another light. The quiet, reserved man that he is, was everything I needed to calm my temper. He let me take care of his estate, organise events — tasks that are often denied to wives, but he could see that without anything to do, I would turn mad. And above all, your father is kind. And I believe that you, like me, deserve a kind person above everyone else, for our heads are sometimes too negative, too fast for our own good. Can you call your Dr Watson a kind man, when the first thing he does as you have got your back turned is to marry a woman, without explanation?

"You see, darling, poverty exacerbates passion. They are not bound by the rules of higher society, and so commoners are known to fall in love easily, but to fall out of love just as quickly. For a young man such as yourself, those rules might seem constricting, and they are, in some unfortunate cases, but most of the time they assure you a safe ground upon which you can build your future.

"I see that you are hurt, my darling, and that hurts me above all, for if I do not love your father passionately, I cannot be more than grateful to him to have helped me put on this Earth the two people I care most about — Mycroft and you, of course. 

"I do not want you to consider marriage, not through your current heartbreak, but there comes a time when everyone must marry, Sherlock. When the time comes, you must find someone who is kind. Find a man who likes you, who respects you, and that you respect in turn. And I promise you, in time, you will develop an affection for him, and you will be happier than those who marry without choice. There are many brutes in this world, Sherlock, and men, particularly, are known to be without pity. I am sorry that you had to learn that lesson this way."

I blink, uncertain of my own thoughts. Of my own opinions. Of everything. Does Watson really not love me, anymore? Does he change sweethearts are easily as one changes boots? Did I somehow hurt him, and was that his final answer? Mother seems convinced of his cruelty, yet I could have never imagined him, never deduced him as anything but kind.

But if he were kind, would he have not written to me, to explain his sudden change of heart?

My heart clenches in my chest as my body surges with hatred. He betrayed me. He betrayed my trust in him — me, a man who does not love easily. 

It seems that I have been a fool.

I shall never love again. 

Inexplicably, my eyes water, and before I realise what I am doing, I cry out, "Mother!", and throw my arms around her, hiding my face in the soft curves of her body for the first time since childhood. 

I weep, and she holds me, her gentle hands in my hair. 

***

The moment I appear in the staircase, everyone downstairs stops and turn their heads towards me.

From here, I can see the whole company, family and guests alike, aghast at witnessing me coming out of my room for the first time in weeks. Visibly, they were told not to expect me. 

Mother, downstairs, clears her throat, and everyone starts making conversation again. Still, a few surprised looks are exchanged, a few glances in my direction.

I watch the slow procession of people towards the dining room, babbling rumours about my presence or the last interesting scandal. I hate them all. I hate them, with their fancy clothes and their faked smiles and their bright eyes. Vultures in waiting for the next interesting story. Idiots, unable to think for themselves but follow the herd. Fools, in any case. All of them.

After a moment, I descend the stairs to make my own way towards the dining room. Everyone is standing, this time their eyes averted as if I were some kind of mournful widow, whilst the butler quickly arranges for a new set of plates and glass, at the other end of the table, just in front of where Mycroft is sitting.

We follow Mother and Father as they sit down, and soon enough, conversation rises again amongst our guests, as I sit in my corner, entirely forgotten again. They surely will spread the rumour about how the youngest Holmes son has finally recovered from an unknown illness the moment that their carriages are going to take them back home. It will last a few weeks, at most, and then, noble society will find some other scandal to whisper about.

"Mr Holmes," a low voice says on my right, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you." 

I turn my head to notice for the first time the man seated beside me, and my heart skips a beat when I notice his red coat. Usually, I would have been introduced to all of our new guests in the main hall, but my belated appearance has prevented me from doing so.

"And you are?" I snap, somehow annoyed at being disturbed during my meal. 

My tone does not make his smile disappear from his face, it only spreads wider, revealing perfectly aligned white teeth. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, at your service."

My shoulders sag — he is evidently not of noble birth, and therefore not going to sink on one knee to propose marriage by the end of the evening. My eyes quickly glance up and down his body, from his calloussed hands to the different tones of his skin around his wrists. 

"You fought Napoleon, I perceive." 

Moran smiles, picking up his fork again. "I was told you would do this. A magic trick, they call it, but I do not believe in magic as much as I believe in a superior intellect." He picks up a piece of meat from his plate, his arm brushing against mine as he does so. I raise my head, only to notice Mycroft's hawk-like gaze on us, which makes my lips stretch in a slight smile. "But please," Moran says, "tell me how you learned this by only looking at me, I am most interested." 

I lean in closer, in order for my words not to be heard by anyone else but him. "It is called deduction," I say, and once I start, I find myself unable to stop talking. 

I tell him everything I see in him: where he served, for how long, in which position he was, down to the precise way that he shoots a gun. In turn, he recounts his time away on the continent fighting the French troops. How he started his military career in India, how he was transferred to Egypt, before the war with the French. He recounts every exotic detail from his time away, and tells me exactly how to make the best possible shot with an array of different weapons — invaluable information for my Mind Palace. When I speak, he listens with genuine interest. When he speaks, I learn about the wonders of a world I have not yet experienced. Something that reminds me of someone else, someone I do not wish to think about for the rest of my days. 

By the time dinner is done, we are standing in a corner of the drawing room, away from the men that are sitting down to start a game of whist. Here, in the dim light of the room, I can better observe Moran's face, from his thin lips to the dark brown of his eyes, my eyes lost somewhere where the candlelight filters through the blond strands of his hair.

Moran leans over me to sweep an errand strand off my shoulder, and I let him, my gaze settling on the bare skin of his neck. His hand brushes my shoulder for a second longer than it needs to be, and even when he steps back, he is much closer than he was before. 

I look up (he is both taller and broader than me, mortifyingly so), and I can witness in his eyes the same sentiment that inhabits my thoughts. 

The silence between us is broken by the hearty laughter of a whist player, and we both glance at him and the gaggle of loud men at the table, annoyed.

"Maybe we should try to find a more… private setting?" Moran asks, his voice in a whisper. From the outside eye, we must look like two friends sharing rumours about the company in which we currently are. 

I nod as I let my eyes sweep across the room, but all the men are currently occupied with either whiskey, the game, or both, and so I know our presence will not be missed. Not soon enough, in any case. 

We exit the room in silence, Moran on my heels, as I quickly think about the next step to take. Inviting him in my rooms would be a mistake — the staff passes by too often for our presence to go unnoticed, and the scandal would break as of this very evening. Although I know every secret passage and room at Sherrinford, nothing seems safe enough — our only solution is to go outside. 

Moran does not seem bothered when we cross the back doors towards the field and the forest. It is quite the opposite: he presses his hand to my back, urging me forward as we cross the darkened field, leaving candlelight behind us. After a minute, my eyes distinguish the world in shades of grey, and the trees appear in front of us. 

We do not make it to the barn. 

Instead, as we reach the first trees, Moran seizes my wrists and makes me turn on my heels, pressing his mouth to mine without asking, without leaving choice. The kiss is aggressive, hard and full of teeth, nothing like Dr—

Not now. 

I kiss back, already breathless, one of my hands fisting in his waistcoat as he pushes me back against the nearest tree. His hands travel my body, rather unashamedly, before he seizes the back of my thigh, raising it up against his leg. I find myself in need of rubbing against him to relieve the pressure between my legs, for him to do something— anything—

Anything to _forget._

His lips leave mine to trail down my jaw, sucking here and there, before he pauses at my neck, and _bites_ me. 

I gasp. It is not a playful nip, not a passionate kiss with a bit of teeth, but a proper, animal bite, and it hurts. I recoil, my head hitting the back of the tree, my heart beating fast in my chest as my thoughts try to guess if he has broken skin or left a mark. 

"That _hurt_ ," I point out, both of my hands on his chest as I try to put distance between us. 

His rough hands seize my bottom as he tries to make me turn my back on him, the lower, hard portion of his body pressed against mine. I want it. Of course I do, or else I would have never permitted this charade to take place, but I do not want it like this. 

Just when I believe he is going to apologise, Moran's face breaks into a rictus, his hands even more determined on me. "God, what a little boring virgin you are. First time ought to hurt when you're so uptight, but if you turn around and stay still, maybe I'll be able to give you a good time." 

It is supposed to _hurt_?! Nobody told me that! Nobody told me anything! And now I am supposed to turn around and let myself be handled by this brute, this—

"Let go of me," I growl, in response to him seizing both of my wrists, this time forcefully trying to turn me around. 

"Hush, sweetheart, it will be over soon."

His stiffness pressing against me, which I desired so a few minutes ago, is now disgustingly obvious.

"Let go of me," I repeat, "or I will cut your most precious parts and feed them to the dogs, although I quite fear that they will eat everything around them and then themselves in order to avoid approaching something so thoroughly disgusting—" 

He hits me in the face, hard enough for blood to pour over my lower lip. In a split second, my eyes spot his weakest traits: a bad right knee and the place where his arm had been broken and then put back together.

I am about to hit him where it counts most when I hear a handgun cocking behind Moran's head. 

"You have heard my brother, Moran, and we Holmeses do hate to repeat ourselves. _Let go_." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: the dubcon scene starts after Moran's character is introduced. A short summary: Sherlock and Moran flirt back and forth and when Sherlock understands that Moran is attracted to him, he leads him outside to have sex in the barn (subconsciously to get back at John). They don't make it to the barn, and start kissing by the trees. Moran starts to be rough with Sherlock, who realizes he doesn't want to have sex with him, he refuses, but Moran still tries to force him. Sherlock starts fighting back and Mycroft swoops in with a gun to save the day. They're still fully clothed at that point and "nothing" has happened beside rough kissing and groping.
> 
> We are still in the land of angst, friends, but it's soon to be resolved, I promise!


	10. Chapter 10

I stand by the window as I watch a furious Moran step into the first carriage available, slamming the door behind him. Behind my back, Mycroft is preparing two glasses of whiskey, one of which he leaves on the nearest table on my right, in reach of my hand.

I clear my throat and sweep my dirty handkerchief once more under my nose, just to make sure that there is no more dried blood left on my face.

Mycroft's earlier intervention had facilitated things greatly, although I did have the situation well in hand. With two quick baritsu movements, followed by a well-placed right hook, I could have had Moran on his knees as easily as commanding a puppet. Mycroft's handgun only made things quicker. 

_"You're joking," Moran said, a frown on his face betraying his stupidity. "That little whore is gagging for it."_

_"You know me," Mycroft retaliated. "When do I joke? Step away."_

Moran did so and let go of my wrist. Him facing Mycroft was the perfect moment for me to act, as I shoved my foot into the back of his bad knee before grabbing his hair to turn him around and delightfully push my knee into his softest parts. He would have retaliated if not for the gun cocked on him, but I believe I could have met him blow for blow. 

_"Too bad the dogs are asleep at this hour of the night, or_ that little whore _would have let them in on you," I said as I yanked on his hair, throwing his head back to meet Mycroft's severe gaze._

_"You will leave now," he said, "and you will never set foot again at Sherrinford, or near Sherlock, ever again. You are carefully watched, Moran, and if see that kind of behaviour again, there will be repercussions. Do believe me."_

I take the glass of whiskey and sip at it, my head buzzing with thoughts I do not care to rearrange in logical order for now. 

"When I said to get revenge," Mycroft says from his armchair by the fireplace, his voice low, "I did not mean it _that_ way." 

I roll my eyes. As always, Mycroft believes everything is about him. It is the first time he has spoken to me since our silent walk back to Sherrinford, before he trapped me in his quarters. 

"This is not about him," I say, still looking out of the window, carriages long gone. 

"Everything seems to be about _him_ ," Mycroft snaps. "Which makes you the perfect pawn for bigger plans to take place." 

I turn to face him, leaving the whiskey behind.

"Who?" I ask.

"Moriarty, of course." 

My heart sinks in my chest, as I let myself drop in the armchair facing Mycroft's. I rub at my face, my thoughts finally coming to a sensible conclusion.

 _You will regret this_. Moriarty's words resonate in my head. 

"How?" I ask. "You know Moran. You must." 

"Finally, brother mine, you have started thinking again. Moran has indeed been Moriarty's right-hand man for the past few years now. Everyone knows about them in the City, and as I said, the both of them are closely followed. Today's little… situation was not a first, according to Moran's unofficial records. Yet it is the first time we have direct proof of his darkest proclivities." 

I close my eyes. And so, when Moriarty went to Colonel Moran with the suggestion of taking a noble man to bed, such a thing could not be refused, could it? How could I have not seen it? A blond, strong soldier, recently retired from his service in exotic countries, with more stories to tell than people usually gather in sixty years of life.

I fell into this trap like a moth to a candle, and nearly got burned. 

"But how? Should this have happened, what had Moriarty to gain from it?" 

Even should I have lost my virginity tonight, I would not have meant giving my consent to marry this excuse of a man, although I am sure that Moriarty would have suggested himself as a potential husband, a saviour to my dishonoured self. 

I lean my head back, my eyes lost in the flames of the fireplace. It seems like, once again, Mycroft is able to read my thoughts, for he answers my silent question exactly. 

"For means of blackmail, obviously." 

I huff, waving my hand at him. "It would have never worked with me." 

"Not everything is about you, _Sherlock_!" Mycroft stands up and slams his glass on the nearest table. "Of course Moriarty would not have sent incriminating proof of your little affair with Moran to you, because you are a stupid man who thinks he is the cleverest of all. He would have sent it—" 

To _Mother_ , I realise, closing my eyes.

"—to Mother, and, of course, she would have paid, because of your mistakes, because of the dishonour you brought upon this family, not once, but twice! Mistakes which we have to fix behind your back because you never stop to think about what your actions could mean to you, and above all, what your actions mean to this family!"

I stand up, my hand in a tight fist by my side. "You should not have followed me!"

Mycroft's face contracts in a grimace. "I was not following you, but him, aware of the danger he represents everywhere he goes. It is hardly my fault that you decided to enter the lion's den head first because of your foolhardy—" 

"You should have let me!" I yell. He should have. If he had, at this hour, the status of my body would no longer be up to debate, nor would be my hand in marriage. I would be free, for the first time in my life, able to do as I choose, able to flee this damned place and this damned family!

Mycroft's anger falls as quickly as it rose, his face ashen. "You do not mean it. I never believed you to be this reckless, but to put yourself in harm's way in order to prove a point, when we are simply trying to prevent whatever disaster you keep inflicting on us—" 

"I do not care about honour or money, or debt!" 

"—and on yourself—"

"I would care more about this family if it cared about me!"

Mycroft stops, and rubs at his face, before settling back again in his armchair. He looks tired. More tired than I ever witnessed him before. 

"What do you mean, brother mine?" he asks, his voice low. 

"I mean that I was encaged from an early age by a controlling family whose desire is only to make money on my back, and who threatens me with my own reputation should I ever leave this place." 

" _Please_ don't tell me you still believe in a threat I issued when you were fourteen years old, Sherlock," he adds, with a roll of his eyes. 

"Because you never truly meant to control every single aspect of my life, brother _mine_ ," I bite back. 

He sighs, raising the whiskey to his lips before he puts the glass back down again. "You were a young, disobedient child, Sherlock, who made it a habit to run off into the woods should someone had left the door open during the night. That time, at Eton…" 

I look away, remembering perfectly well what happened then. I had been at school for a year and was already sick of it, but not nearly as much as my teachers were sick of me. Victor Trevor had influenced me towards some substances he could only get from his mother, the nurse, or from the infirmary at school. These substances had such an effect upon my brain that they maximised the process of my thoughts, only to push me into terrible black moods for days after it. At first, it seemed like the outcome was not worth the few hours of agitation, but then, I found myself coming back to these substances, until their hold on me was so strong that I did not know how to function without them. The interest a few teachers still had in me was rather a sadistic one, for they punished me severely when my little addiction was discovered — which prompted me to run off, for good. 

I spent two days in the woods, slept in a barn, before being found by Mycroft and his men. Once again. 

Fourteen was just old enough for the threat of me arriving to London and starting anew being serious enough that Mycroft threatened to dirty my reputation with the addiction that had befallen me for a few months. And what Mycroft desires, he obtains, even more when it is about a city he nearly rules by himself. 

"So young," Mycroft repeats, something unreadable on his face. "That time, and the ones before that. When I found you in the woods… You were only nine, little brother, and I have never felt _that_ … before." 

"Anger?" 

"Fear," he admits, and I raise my head to stare at him, disbelieving. Mycroft, afraid? "I thought I might find you dead in a bush, trampled by a horse or taken by a stranger. And there you were, peacefully asleep in a tree, like a child from one of those foolish books for the young ones. And you ran off, again, and again, and again, as if you did not know the risks, the perils of a child walking on his own…" 

"You nearly sound," I say, slowly, "as if you _care_." 

He huffs, looking down to his glass. "I do, don't I?" 

He stands up and shows me his back. That is enough sentimentality from Mycroft for a whole week. "In any case, whatever I may have said when you were fourteen and hot-blooded does not stand anymore. You are a man, Sherlock, and although you may believe you understand the goings of the real world, this little… affair only proves you barely know about it." 

"I would have known about the world if you would have let me experience it," I snap. "In your desire of keeping me safe, you only have made me more vulnerable."

Is it not always like that? Father taught me how to fall off a pony before putting me on a horse. Is this my fall then? And for what, for John? For love? Have I fallen too old, and broken my bones, my heart in the process? Shall I ever get back in the saddle, and experience the world for what it is?

"I cannot change what I cannot understand," I whisper to myself. Of course, I have a good understanding of social classes. But is it not true that in London, in the animosity procured by the city and its masses, that rules can be forgotten? Over there, John and I would have met a better end than here, in the country, where everything is set in stone since the beginning of times. “To find a way for us…”

"Sherlock," Mycroft finally says, eyes in the flames before him. "You cannot change the world." 

I set my glass to the table, eyes on the door, back to him. "Watch me try."

***

Against my words to Mycroft, I find myself ridden with sudden hopelessness as the end of the summer passes by. He himself stays at Sherrinford, working from his quarters, for still a month or so, which makes our parents happy and distracts them from me. On many days like this one, I am left in peace, to either work in my rooms, my small laboratory, or outside if the weather permits. 

I find myself thinking back to the events of the early summer, and sometimes, to Colonel Moran as well. Contrary to what Mycroft had told him that dreadful night, he did get arrested the moment he stepped in London, as my brother had quickly found (or falsified) enough testimonies to prove his illegal and monstrous proclivities.

Two men had desired me, this summer, yet it seems it was only instrumental to their bigger plans. 

I have always known myself to be undesirable, both of body and personality, but under _his_ gaze, I had started to hope— to believe…

Ah! Not that it matters anymore!

The clear image of my Mind Palace is disturbed when Jack, sleeping at my feet, raises his head towards the door. I roll my head upon my shoulders, stiff from being seated too long in the same armchair, my favourite one in the library.

"What is it?" I ask, as Mr Willis enters the room. 

"Lord Howard, sir," Mr Willis says. 

I frown. I am not expecting a visitor, and certainly not a visitor of that kind, in these rooms. When she was here, earlier today, Mother's lips had moved as she spoke words I did not hear. Maybe she announced it then. Did I agree? I am afraid I do not remember. 

I hum. "Yes, let him in." 

Mr Willis opens the door fully, as the man that must be Lord Howard, for I do not believe I have seen him before, steps in. With a glance, I see everything I need to complete the information I already had about him: from one of the richest families in England, Lord Henry Howard is a tall man in his forties, brown of hair, growing soft-grey at his temples, and browned-eyed as well. He has a child, a daughter, from a previous wife he loved dearly and who died of sickness a few years ago. He has been celibate since, and is, evidently, trying to remedy that situation. 

"Mr Holmes," he says, upon entering the room. 

He bows his head, and I bow in return, my gaze going back to the bit of colourful carpet beside the tip of my straightened legs. Mother would bestow me that this is not a posture a lord should sit in, slumped like that in an armchair, but I find myself not particularly caring about it. 

"Lord Howard, I suppose," I sigh. 

"Yes, indeed I am," he says, with a weak smile. "May I sit?"

He points to the armchair in front of me, somehow very casual for a lord of his standing.

"Oh, but please."

He has to step over my legs to reach the armchair, and only when he does so, do I retract them to sit properly. Jack, curious, extends his head towards Lord Howard, and sniffs. 

Howard, upon seeing the dog, beams. He gently bends down, offering the side of his hand to Jack's nose. "And whom, if I may ask, is this dear fellow?"

"His name is Jack." 

Hearing his name, Jack turns his head towards me, seeking permission. I nod, once, and the dog stands, going to greet Lord Howard by smearing his humid nose in his hand. 

"Did you name him after someone in particular, Mr Holmes?" 

I wiggle in my chair. "Yes, after Jack Rackham." 

Howard's eyes widen, as he pats Jack's head. "Are you interested in history, Mr Holmes?" 

"Not as much as in pirates, no," I say, with a smile. Although it is clear that history is something that my guest is rather fond of. Lords must find such boring pursuits, as to occupy their minds from going insane after a few days in one of those dreadful halls or manors. 

Howard laughs as he reaches inside his pocket, retrieving a bit of jerky. "Can I? I do not usually go around with jerky in my pockets, but we have a great deal of hounds at the manor," he explains. 

I nod once more, and watch as the man feeds Jack, whose attention is all on him. This must be a good sign, probably, since Jack does not instantly like everybody he meets.

"So, you like pirates, Mr Holmes?" 

I bend forward, my eyes intent on him. "Do say, Lord Howard, have you served his Majesty?" 

Lord Howard jerks his chin back, surprised at this sudden change of subject. "I must admit that I did not. My brother did, and he died during his service. It was never called upon me to serve, which is as well. I am more of a bookish person, if you see what I mean, although I do enjoy riding." 

"It is as well," I sigh, reclining back into my chair. I do not need another soldier making promises he cannot keep.

I watch from the corner of my eye as Lord Howard plays with Jack, who has smelled more dried meat in the man's pocket. Mother's words echo in my mind, from the time she had asked me to find a _kind_ man to take as husband. Lord Howard seems to be so, from the way he treated his wife with devotion until the day she passed, only to greatly mourn her and raise their daughter with great interest in everything she overtook. He is older than me, of course, but then, I would not be the first person to marry a man who could be my father. And age, in many situations, equals a stability of mind and of means. Should he die of old age, I would still have a good twenty years in front of me to spend as I wish, widower to a rich lord. 

We spend the rest of the afternoon together, talking about trivial matters, until we are called for supper, where we are seated beside each other. I take a casual interest in what he has to say, and he, in turn, recounts what he has learned from his books about pirates, ships, battles and treasures. He seems genuinely interested in me, always polite, always careful, waiting to sit before I do, leaving me to my thoughts when I do not wish to speak, but not entirely without wits, like some of my youngest suitors. I still remember when Mother tried to pair me off with a sixteen-year-old child. No, Lord Howard may not be here without intention, but he is not manipulative about it. He is genuinely interested in me, and in what I have to say.

Conversation is pleasant. Dinner is pleasant. The walk after it, in the gardens, where he presses his shoulder to mine, and where I let him take my arm in his, is pleasant. 

Yet his words do not make my heart painfully squeeze in my chest. His touch does not send shivers down my spine. His smile does not need to be inventoried in every single room of my Mind Palace for further use. Everything is just that: pleasant.

When again in the drawing rooms, at the end of the evening, Howard stands, about to excuse himself for the night. 

"Do not leave yet, Lord Howard," I say, "for we have some matter to discuss." 

He raises an eyebrow, but does as I ask, and sits back down again. "What matter would that be, Mr Holmes?" 

"Marriage, of course." 

His eyes widen. Clearly, he never thought me capable enough to raise the subject on my own, and on the very first night of his stay here. "Marriage? I believed it would take more than a single day for us to come to that subject."

"Why so?" I ask, an eyebrow raised. 

"I wanted to give you the chance of… getting to know me better, before coming to a decision." 

I stand up, to face away from him, and walk towards the small table arranged with alcohol. "Whiskey?" I ask. 

"Please," Howard answers. 

I pour ourselves two glasses, not wanting for Mr Willis to come in and bother our discussion, which is of utter importance. "Marriage," I say, "has nothing to do with sentimentality, Lord Howard. It is a contract, and like all contracts, it needs to be discussed and debated. Most contracts, just like most marriages, you see, are a matter of chance. Before agreeing to anything, I need to know exactly what _this_ contract entails."

I turn towards him, and hand him his glass, which he takes with a shaking hand. He takes a sip, his eyes on a point on the carpet, as I sit back down in my own armchair. 

"You have a scientific mind, Mr Holmes," he says, his voice low. "And I admire you for it. Yet you have to understand that this… courtship is not born out of a particular plan, a detail in a bigger scheme, but simply because I wish to make you as my husband. I— you must not remember this, but I was invited to Sherrinford, at the beginning of the summer. You would not spare me a glance, of course, but it was the night you played on the violin, and I found myself irrevocably falling in love with you." 

He leans towards me, hesitation in his movements, unsure if I would accept his touch, should he put his hand on my knee. I am unsure as well. It is not that his sentiment lacks conviction, for Lord Howard seems to be an honest man. It is not that at all.

He chuckles, clearly displeased with himself. "I sound mad, I know. I am not as young as I once was, and you would be right to say that I have lived, and loved already not enough to impose myself on a younger fellow like you. It is true that I had a wife, once, that I loved greatly, and it is also true that I believed I would never meet anyone like her again, until my eyes laid on you, raising that bow and piercing my heart at the same time. It is true that I want you by my side, but my love is too great for me to deliberately cause you sorrow. You say that marriage is a contract, and so be it, but if you accept to tie yourself to me only to regret it for the rest of your life, I must ask you to refuse me, for it would only break my heart to witness the man I love grow hateful of me for the choices we made. I was surprised, earlier, when you desired to speak about marriage, for my intentions were to stay and win you over at a pace such things naturally develop. And so, if you wish to debate upon what you call to be a contract, I shall ask you this one question before we proceed. Would you see yourself, should we marry, develop at some point in the future something one could call affection, if not love?"

I keep my eyes on him. "I believe… it is a possibility, yes." 

Lord Howard sighs with relief and leans back in his armchair. "Let's discuss, then." 

"We will marry as quickly as possible, a private affair." 

"Agreed upon the second, yet I do not want to jump in too fast. Shall we not learn to know each other first?" 

I roll my eyes, which makes him smile. "Fine, if we must," I concede, knowing that it might give me an advantage on some other points. "I will spend the wedding night with you, because it is asked of me, but expect no more after it." 

"Of course. But should your… affections grow, do you believe…?" 

"It is a possibility," I repeat, not wanting to expand too much on the subject. 

"Good," he nods.

"Jack comes with me, of course, and he shall be treated as a member of the family and not like the hounds you keep in your kennels. He has to have access to the manor, and our rooms." 

Lord Howard nods again, as Jack raises his head, hearing his name. I will never leave him behind. "Of course," Howard agrees, smiling to the dog. I can already see that he has taken for him, so this point is not too hard to sell. 

"I shall have a room for myself, for my experiments. No one is to bother me when I am studying." 

"That can be arranged." 

I breathe in, conscious that this next request might prove more difficult. "We will have no children. It is not up for discussion." 

"I— Mr Holmes, I already have a daughter that I am content with." 

I gape. 

"I see that you have forgotten about this particular point," he chuckles. "Do not worry, you will not become father-in-law to a jealous flock of ten children that are older than you. No, my daughter is sixteen, and although she is of age, she does not wish to marry yet, and I will respect that decision."

I swallow. If the young lady has as much common sense as her father, she will not prove to be a problem. "All right. One last thing, then. Mother will be the one to discuss the contribution you are going to make to the Sherrinford estate, which I do not care about at all. My only wish would be…" 

"Yes?" Howard says, eager. 

"For you to provide me with rooms in London, where I shall work — under another name, of course, to avoid bringing attention upon yourself and your family — as a consulting detective. This, too, is not up for discussion." 

Howard blinks and leans towards me. "But Holmes, I already have rooms in London. I— I thought you were aware. I love the City greatly, and my daughter has long desired to run the household by herself. She is of bigger patience than me for such matters, and so I have, since last year, permitted her to stay at the manor whilst I lived most of the year in London. You would, of course, come with me to the City. Unless you would rather have your own rooms, which I can also provide for you easily enough. Money, in any case, shall never be a problem." 

I smile to myself. What an unconventional man. This must be it. How I finally can be free. "No, I will not need my own rooms, in this case, Lord Howard." I pause. "And what your conditions might be?" 

"My conditions?" 

"Let's not call them that, then. What do you expect of me, as your husband? So I know what I am in for." 

He crosses a leg over another, a hand under his chin as he reflects upon my question. "Well, I would expect you to attend events I am invited to. You do not have to like the event, or host, in question, but I would ask of you always to be on my side. If something displeases you, I want to know, but privately. I was never much a man who likes to wash his dirty clothes in front of the whole company. The rest of the time, you can use it as you see fit. I admit that I spend a lot of time in my own study, so should you take up science, or work, I will not mind." 

"Fair enough," I say. The man must be completely sweet on me to accept my request of working as a consulting detective. It is clear that this opportunity will not pass twice. I must take advantage whilst I can. 

"I ask you to be kind to my daughter. She is very dear to me, and although I do not expect you to be the best of friends, it would pain me terribly to witness discord between members of my own family." 

I nod. If she lives in the country, away from us, it should not be too difficult.

"You are, of course, welcome to visit back home whenever you wish, or invite your friends and family, whether it be in London or at the manor. I—" he starts, before he pauses. "I do not know how to say what I am about to say." 

I straighten myself. Will he ask something of me… something I cannot do?

"What is it?" I press him, waving a hand. 

"I am aware of our difference in age, Mr Holmes. Unlike other older men who take younger spouses, I will not delude myself by hoping that there will be a time when you desire me. It is likely that with time, you will want to see less and less of me, and I do not blame you for that."

I am about to stop him, to tell him that he is perfectly fine, when his words astound me. 

"It is… certainly not something that I wish upon myself, but should you… Should you find yourself in need to spend… time with someone of your age, I will not forbid you of doing so. I simply have one request: that you tell me about it, and that at the end of the night, you come back to our shared quarters. There shall be no scandal, nothing left behind to get other people talking." 

I gape, not exactly knowing how to answer _that_. "I assure you, Lord Howard, that this marriage comes with my entire loyalty. I am not a man known to… love, and desire, easily. Should you accommodate me with rooms for my experiments, my music and my work, I promise you that I will be entirely satisfied with my situation." 

Lord Howard does not laugh, but he looks at me as if he knows that somewhere, deep down, I do not mean my words, as all young men are prone to gallivanting, married or not. Shows that he still does not know me well. 

"All right, then," he says. "It seems like the matter is settled." 

I stand up, clearing my throat. "Good. Ask me, then." 

"Now?" Lord Howard says, surprised. 

I throw my hands in the air. When, if not now?

He nods, and from his chair, slides to one knee. I let him take my hand in his, my heart beating fast in my chest. This is it, then.

"May I ask for your whole name?" he whispers.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," I say, chuckling a bit. "Quite a mouthful, I am afraid." 

"Quite," he replies, a smile on his lips. Reflections of the flames near us dance in his hazelnut eyes. He has said he loves me, and I can see it now.

Howard clears his throat, before looking up again. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, it would be the greatest honour of my life, should you accept my hand in marriage." 

"I will." 

***

Howard has barely left for a whole day when it happens. I am in the drawing room, violin in hand, as I reflect upon my recent engagement. Mother and Father, have, of course, given me their blessing, and Howard remained at Sherrinford for what was left of the week. Most of our time together was supervised by a chaperone, either Mother or Mycroft, because they still do not trust me to behave and not do anything foolish that might ruin everything. Yet most of our time together was spent discussing trivial matters, or in companionable silence. Only yesterday, as I was bidding Howard goodbye, away from the prying eyes of my family, did he place a chaste kiss upon my lips. He regretted instantly, I could see it on his face, but I did not mind. It did not make me feel anything, in return. It was pleasant. As always. 

I do not quite know what my fingers are playing when I am at once interrupted by Mr Willis, on the other side of the door. The second pair of footsteps, I could recognise anywhere. Jack stands, his tail wagging.

"Mr Holmes," Mr Willis says, his voice low, "I can make him go away, you only have to say the words." 

I lower my violin by my side, and carefully place it back on the table, along with the bow. "No, Mr Willis, bring him in." Without turning to face the unexpected guest, I greet him. "Dr Watson. It has been a while." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote Howard in but ended up liking him WAY too much. Can someone write an AU of this story where this John is in fact Victor Trevor who has broken Sherlock's heart, and Howard is an older John who's terribly in love with Sherlock and marries him? Pretty please! :P


	11. Chapter 11

  


"Sherlock!" Dr Watson exclaims, stepping into the room, clearly in a hurry. "I have not heard about—" 

"Do not _dare_ call me that!" I shout, as I turn to face him.

His face falls, as if he has been physically slapped. How dare he show himself? How dare he call me that, as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed? As if he has not married another and broken my heart! Does he believe he still has the right to keep me? Does he intend for me to be his secret lover, behind his wife's back? Never have I been more disappointed by another human being. 

"I— _Holmes_ ," he breathes out, his eyes wide. "Dear God, I did not— I did not know it would have such an effect upon you." 

I gape. Is it common for people of lower class to marry and expect their sweetheart to rejoice for it? I do not recall having accepted being Watson's forbidden lover. 

"This is inappropriate," I say, turning towards the window again. I try not to notice Jack rubbing his sides on Dr Watson's legs.

"Inappropriate never stopped you before," Dr Watson answers, with a weak smile. 

"This is _most_ inappropriate, Dr Watson. You are a married man, after all, and I am engaged to marry before winter sets in." 

"I— I see," Dr Watson utters, his knees giving out as he slowly sink onto the loveseat. Jack puts his head upon his knees, but Dr Watson does not react, his gaze lost on the thin air between us. "You changed your mind. I felt like it was bound to happen one day or another." 

"I did not change anything, you were the one to abandon me to marry someone else!" My hands are in two fists, and dear God above, should Dr Watson utter again something as idiotic as this, I will not restrain myself.

Jack barks, both excited and anguished at this strange display. Both of us ignore him.

"I thought you would understand!" he shouts, not of anger, but rather of despair. His eyes are growing wet. For a second, my heart squeezes in my chest upon this sight, but I must remember that I am angry at him, or else I am entirely lost. "I should… I should have known when you stopped answering my letters. I would have come sooner, but you must understand, I had to act quickly, or everything would have been lost. Oh, Holmes! Will you ever forgive me? Everything I did, I did for us." 

"Stop this madness! You did not write to me! I wrote to you, and you never deigned to answer! If you have come to receive my blessing, consider yourself damned, and leave at once! I can only hope that the next time you kiss your wife, you will remember me, and she will forever taste bitter to you!" 

He blinks. "What are you saying? You _wrote_ to me?"

"Every three days, for a month," I let out, less angry, more tired and heartbroken than I would have liked. "And you never deigned to answer. I begged, Dr Watson, I _begged_ you." 

"You wrote to me," he repeats, unbelieving. "I swear on my own head that I have never, in the past month, received a letter from you. Please, Holmes, please tell me you have received my letters."

I blink. "I have not." 

Dr Watson throws his head to the side, biting on his lower lip as I watch tears overflow his eyes. He takes a moment, and then: "Sh— Holmes, I understand the source of your anguish, and your hatred. Please, allow me one last favour: sit down, and listen to what I have to say for myself. You can judge me afterwards, and should you never want to see me again, I will respect your wishes, and leave you in peace."

I do not move. 

"Please," Dr Watson begs again.

I sigh, and against my own rationality, sit beside him on the loveseat. He moves his hands, as if to seize mine, before he remembers himself again, and grabs his knees instead. His knuckles are white, and it is evident that this matter causes much distress to him. Jack, once more, puts his head on Dr Watson's lap, and glances at me with those kind of eyes that would make me do anything for him. As if it would be that simple. 

"I do not know where to start," Dr Watson says, his voice in a whisper. 

"Try at the beginning," I reply, with irony.

I cannot look at him, and so I set my gaze on the carpet. A part of me wants to shut myself down in my Mind Palace, not to hear what he has to say for himself. Not to hear his voice, which I believe I would never hear again. 

Yet, I find myself unable to ignore the man before me. 

"I, yes, I will." A pause. "After that night, at Lady Selby's, we were confronted, as you know, with quite a difficult problem. I believed it not to be a good idea to elope, and so, if we wanted to marry in the conventional way, we had to find enough money to do so." 

"I already know this," I snap. "I was there." 

"Yes, yes, forgive me. It is only the beginning of this story. I went back to London, as you also know, and started taking up more work. I moved to smaller rooms, believing, a bit simply, that should I work at this pace for years to come, the day should come when I would have enough money to save this estate, and by the same fact, marry you. It was quite a delusional idea, but the only one I had at the time. The last— the last time I saw you, I had to leave earlier than planned, if you remember. It is because my dear friend, Miss Mary M—" 

I hiss at the name, sliding away from him. 

"Please, Holmes, you promised to listen to this entire tale." 

I close my eyes. "Proceed, then." 

"As I was saying, I left early that night because my dear friend had fallen ill. In the morning, I received at her house a courier from Stamford announcing that you had sought me in vain in his quarters the night prior, only to reveal that your mother had refused you any possible future that would include me. 

"The news distressed me greatly, for this was our main plan, and it did not work out well. It seemed that I therefore needed to continue amassing money until the end of my days. Miss Morstan, witnessing my black mood, asked what was the matter, and upon telling her, since she is my dearest friend since childhood, she offered another, better, solution to our problem.

"Now, before I proceed with this story, you must understand what exactly links Miss Morstan and me. As you know, I was brought to the orphanage soon after my birth, where I spent the rest of my childhood. It is at the same orphanage where I met Miss Morstan, who quickly became one of my closest friends, although there was never anything more between us. Do you remember the time I told you I had a friend in the same… situation as your brother? Well, Miss Morstand eventually confided in me that she did not care about matters of the heart, and that was as well, for she had always felt like a sister to me. You also know that after working little jobs here and there, one of the patrons of the orphanage took an affection towards me, and gave me enough money to get an education, if I should repay it later by serving the King and his army. I accepted, and around the same time, Miss Morstan, who was one of the brightest young ladies at the orphanage, was also taken under a governess's wing, to follow her footsteps.

"For years, we did not see one another, and talked only through intermittent correspondence. When I returned from war, injured, she and Stamford were the only two people to ever visit me, and genuinely care for the state of my being. However, Miss Morstan told me soon enough that she had to leave on an international enterprise that would take most likely more than one year to complete, and as she had been sworn to secrecy, could not reveal what exactly was asked of her.

"She finally returned to this country at the beginning of the summer, as you know, since I believe to have written to you about her before. I hurried to her, curious to hear her tale, only to discover that she has contracted an exotic disease, as she lay pale and tired in bed. I listened to her as she recounted what extraordinary things had happened during that year. 

"You see, Miss Morstan, just like me, has no knowledge about who her parents are. You can imagine her great surprise when she was contacted one day by a certain Mr Jonathan Small, a red coat currently serving in India, telling her that her father, Colonel James Sholto, had suddenly passed and that she was entitled to a heritage of great importance, a number which he could not divulge by letter, but that she could receive in its entirety should she come all the way to India to retrieve it.

"That was the reason of her travels, and so, after a few months, when she reached India, Mr Small, Sholto's secretary, informed her of her father's own story. To cut a long story short, he had come upon a secret, a very old document, hinting to the burial of the Agra treasure. It has been stated in the legends of the locals living there, that should someone find the treasure it would be theirs to keep. Yet only a few attempted the search, for it was believed that the treasure was a fable told to young children, and that it did not exist in reality. But Colonel Sholto finally had the proof and the directions to the treasure, and he asked for the help of three other men to retrieve it, one of which had also discovered the original document. Should they bring it back safely, the treasure would we split into four equal parts, and shared accordingly.

"After a long and tenuous search, which cost the life of one of the party's members, they finally found the Agra treasure. Problems arose soon, for one of the fellows wanted to claim the share of the fourth man that had passed, and conflict exploded amongst the three remaining men. It led to arms, and eventually, Colonel Sholto was the only one left alive, although injured. He conducted a search to see if any of his late mates had families, but as far as he could find they were all celibate and childless soldiers. Eventually, his search led him to learn of the existence of Miss Mary Morstan, his daughter, who had been hidden away from him. His injuries too serious, he eventually passed, but not before stating in his testament, Mr Small as a witness, that Miss Morstan should receive the entirety of the Agra treasure upon his death."

Dr Watson pauses here, as my head is swimming with information. India, a forgotten treasure, four soldiers of which only one survives? What does this have anything to do with me at all? Does Dr Watson only want to hurt me more? For me to congratulate him on his recent wife and on the fact that he is now a rich man, by all accounts?

"Miss Morstan, initially, wanted for the gold to go back to the Indian community of Agra, for she saw how poor the people are, and did not want the children to grow under such conditions that we ourselves went through at the orphanage. But locals intensely believed that the gold was now cursed to anyone who had not discovered it in the first place, and they refused Miss Morstan's proposal to split it. Nonetheless, she offered great sums to the local orphanage and hospital. Still, she went back to England with more gold than she ever had seen in her life, but with her health incredibly lessened by her prolonged stay in exotic countries, and long travels. She called me in to treat her, and upon making diagnosis, I discovered that she was bedridden with an illness for which there is no cure, for I have seen it often back in India, and I know how it takes lives indiscriminately."

He stops again, and sniffs. 

"She is dying, Holmes. And there is nothing I can do about it." 

Against everything that my rational brain is telling me, I put my hand over his. Maybe he deserves this fate, but I cannot see him in such pain, for it hurts me as well. 

He wipes his free hand under his nose, and when he chuckles, it comes out all wet. "I have spent every free moment, when I am not working or with you, treating her in order to make her last days as comfortable as possible. I was afraid she was about to die, after receiving a dire letter that night at Stamford's, and this is why I left in a hurry. Upon seeing my distress, the next morning, I confessed to Mary— Miss Morstan, the depth of my love to you, and why we could not marry yet.

"To my absolute surprise, she then suggested that we should marry, for I would inherit the treasure upon her death, which would make marrying _you_ a financial possibility. I refused at first, for her offer was too generous, but she pleaded that should I not accept, she would nonetheless leave the treasure to me in her testament for she has no family and considers me her brother, the closest thing to a family member she ever had. You will probably ask me why I did not wait to inherit the money rather than marry her — I raised the same objection, to which she replied, and with reason, that since we are not related by blood the government would surely halt the transaction to see if everything is in order. They would inevitably tax a part of this inheritance, for it is a lot of money after all, and everyone wants a part of it. The process could take months, and they would also be wary of me, as they should, for they might think that I was the one to end Mary's days in order to get more quickly to the treasure.

"I wrote to you, explaining the whole situation, and asked you for your blessing. I believed I would have the time to see you before the ceremony, to be certain that you were agreeing to this, but Mary's state quickly deteriorated, and we had to go to the church before she completely lost her ability to walk and travel, even with help.

"You see, now, that everything I had done, I have done it for you. And should you consider my faults to be too strong to forgive, as I have said at the start, I will leave and never show my face ever again." 

I sit there, astonished, for this tale is certainly the wildest one I have ever heard, and I am a _consulting detective_ , for Heaven's sake. I am conscious that Watson's eyes are on me, awaiting a verdict that should decide his future. Yet there is still something I do not understand: why has Watson not received my letters, and why have I not received his?

It takes me a moment for it to dawn upon me. 

Moriarty's threat. _You will regret this_. 

Sebastian Moran. 

His plan to dirty my honour would not have worked if I still had a man by my side who loved me too much, and who were of a lower class that specifically does not care about virginity. 

And an informant. Someone that must have known that Watson and I were together, that we corresponded… Thomas? No, impossible. 

Someone, someone, who has access to the post, who has probably received compensation for his services… Compensation in the form of a new _suit_. 

"ANDERSON!" I yell, as I jump to my feet, sending Watson backwards over his surprise.

Without waiting a second, I run from the room, and down the stairs to the staff's quarters. "ANDERSON!" I shout again, until a younger maid, her face bleak, points to the door of his room. 

I bang my fist to the door, barely aware that Watson is standing by my side. "ANDERSON! ANSWER THE GODDAMN DOOR OR I SWEAR I AM GOING TO—" 

I am about to slam my shoulder into it when Anderson's vile nose appears after cracking the door open. Without letting him get the chance to close it again on me, I barge into the room, seize the man by the collar and slam him against the nearest wall. "You will tell me at once where the letters are, or I swear to you that you are going to regret this!"

"Holmes!" Watson warns me, about what, I do not know. Beside him, Jack growls.

"SPEAK!" I shout at Anderson, slamming the back of his head against the wall once again. 

"In the— in the drawer," Anderson utters, and I let go of him to jump to the drawer, emptying it of its content on the floor until my hand reaches for two distinct piles of letters. 

I recognise my handwriting on the first one. 

With a trembling hand, I unlace the second pile together, and a few (already open) letters, fall around me. Gently, Watson takes me by the shoulders and sits me down on the bed, just beside him. Anderson is gone, I do not know why or where, and I could not care less.

I grab at the first few that I see, a few words unmistakably from Watson's fine handwriting jumping to my eyes. 

_My love_

_I must_

_Mary Morstan_

_love you_

_eternally_

_Treasure_

_I need_

_you understand_

_forgive_

_illness_

_please_

_answer me_

_yours_

_forever_

_love_

_John_

I clear my throat, after what seems to be a long time. "Watson," I say, and he turns his head towards me. "What makes you think that she will not get better?" 

He closes his eyes. I can see that the subject pains him a lot. "She will not. She is… she is dying. It is a matter of days."

I lick my lower lip, trying to make sense of everything. "And— this money… Is it enough?" 

"Holmes…" he says, his eyes wide. "There is enough to buy Sherrinford five times over and more, if I wished to do so." 

"Oh, John!"

Before I know it, I throw my arms around him, hide my face in his neck, where he smells like he always has. 

It must be hours later when I finally look up, my throat sore and my eyes dry, and when I kiss him, fully and on the mouth, he tastes like salt and hot tears.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the Indian treasure/dying wife combo-solution would seem crazy in any other story, but... well, ACD wrote it first?!  
> Did I not promise a sensible solution! Is John redeemed enough for you?! :P
> 
> (As always, thank you for your support and your comments! I haven't yet replied to those on the last chapter, but I will do as soon as possible, I am just ridiculously busy at the moment!)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death.

When we leave the small room, hand in hand, Anderson is already tied up to a chair, Mrs Richards watching over him with her trusty rolling pin in one hand. There is a cut on his lower lip, and a bruise on his cheek, which matches the one on Thomas's fist, who is also sitting at the table, cutting through some piece of wood in a rather menacing manner. 

"I will send Mycroft before supper," I promise Mrs Richards. Anderson works, after all, for Moriarty, and I am sure that Mycroft will want to deal with it by himself. If I do, I might be more murderous than recommended. 

"Of course, Mr Holmes, Anderson ain't going anywhere under my watch," she says, patting her rolling pin with one hand. 

With a smile, I tug on John's hand and we head back upstairs again, where everything is calm. Mother and Father are only returning later today, and Mycroft is in his quarters, unaware of the whole business going on downstairs.

We enter the drawing room once more, silently, as afternoon sunshine filters through the tall windows. I sit on the loveseat, and when John joins me, I tug him down in order for us to lie face to face, our bodies pressed against each other in this exiguous space.

We kiss, and we kiss, until I press my nose underneath his jaw to smell him, to remember how good it felt and how good it feels now. My fist bunched up in the front of his shirt, I wish for us to never part again. If I could, I would melt my body to his, to enter his clothes, claw myself under his skin. 

Until it dawns on me that I am not exactly an innocent party in this whole affair. 

John feels me stiffen, always so careful about my reactions, and jerks his chin back to better see me. "What is the matter, my love?" 

I want to kiss him again, for I thought I would never hear him call me that again. "If I say, you will hate me." 

He smiles. "I could never hate you." 

"Do you know of Sebastian Moran?" 

Surprise written on his face, John frowns. "Yes, I do, from India. He is one of the most horrible men I have come across, and—" his eyes widen, and his arms tighten around my back, "please do not tell me he did something to harm you." 

"It is not as much what he did than what I have done." 

I breathe in, and recount the whole story, how Moriarty had asked him to come to Sherrinford in order to seduce me, and how I fell into the trap like a fool.

"I wanted to," I whisper, "I was angry at you and I wanted him to do it," I conclude, after recounting how Mycroft had intervened.

John's eyelids flutter shut. "I am going to kill him," he grits out.

"Do not." I hold him tighter to me. "Mycroft has dealt with him already. Nothing happened, John. Forgive me." 

"There is nothing to forgive," he says, this time with a smile. "You were heartbroken, your reaction is not exactly surprising, my love."

"I have kissed Lord Howard as well," I say, before he can forgive me fully. 

His eyebrows snap up. "Did you… enjoy it?" 

"It was… fine. Nothing like kissing you." 

John smiles, and presses his lips to mine. 

"Are you not angry that I did?" 

"I am tremendously jealous, yes," he growls, playfully. "But not angry, no. As I have said, you thought I had deserted you for Mary. And— my darling, as much as I am not someone who is prone to share, if you had… proceeded, with Howard or anyone else, I would not have desired you less for it." 

I blink. "Really?" 

"Of course! I am not a rich lord raised to see the world in that way, Sherlock, I do not care to be the first, only to be the last." 

I kiss him, overtaken with love for such a man. "You will be. My first and my last." 

We spend the following minutes in silence, his fingers tracing over the skin of my cheeks. "You are engaged, then," he says, reminding me of that matter.

"Yes. I will have to write to him, to explain what happened."

"What made you choose him?"

I think about it for a second. "He… cares for me. Genuinely. Howard does not want me to be a stay-at-home wife like a piece of furniture, nor does he expect me to devote my entire life to his sole person. He sees me as I am, that is all."

John's eyes sadden, suddenly, and he does not offer an explanation, only a gasp when he realises: "Lord Howard? One of the men that were there the day I met you?" 

"Yes, indeed." 

"But that man is nearly fifty!" 

"He is forty-four, that is _not_ nearly fifty." 

John laughs, his fingers poking at my sides. "You would have married a fifty year-old man! What for?!" 

"He is _not_ fifty! Older men already have children, and their households are generally more stable."

"Or maybe," John counters, "maybe you have an inclination for older men." 

"I do not!" I roar, sitting up. 

He laughs as he waves his arms around my body, sitting up as well. "Well, I am older than you," he points out. 

I roll my eyes. Do we truly need to have this conversation? "Not _that much_ older," I say. "What? Do _you_ have an inclination for younger people?"

He considers it for a moment, serious, before he erupts in laughter when he sees my face. "Of course not!" 

I huff, letting my forehead fall to his shoulder. His hand drops onto my back, and caresses me there for a moment. It is clear that he has missed me as much as I him.

"Is… is Mary younger than you?"

His hand stops, before it travels to my shoulder, and with two of his fingers, he lifts my chin to face him. "No," he whispers. "We are the same age." 

He kisses me, sweetly, and I can see and feel the sorrow that sweeps through his body. I thought I had lost him, these past months, and he thought he lost me, this afternoon. 

"She wants to meet you." 

"Who?" I ask, a frown on my face, although I already know the answer. 

"Mary," John says. "She… it's her only condition. She wants to meet you before… well, you know." I am about to protest, to say that it is likely she will not like me, when he cuts me off with one of these looks I cannot resist. "Please," he lets out, "for me. For us."

"All right." I close my eyes, for a moment. Then: "John. Do you believe what we are doing is right?" 

When I open my eyes again, it is to witness surprise written on his face. I want to kiss it away, away with the doubt and the pain I have just created, a wound I will have to dig in further. 

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" he says, his voice trembling at the corners. 

"It has…" I start. "It has been brought to my attention that young men fall in love to fall right out of it at the first occasion. I do not doubt the sincerity of your sentiments for me, but do you believe these sentiments are going to last?" 

He retracts himself, his hands leaving my body, my shoulders, and it seems like the air has been suddenly vacuumed around me only to leave tangible emptiness.

"John… It is not my desire to cause you any more suffering today, but I need to know. What has happened… it cannot happen again." 

He lifts his head, his deep-blue eyes on me. "My love for you… is not like a candle that fades as time passes, but like a star in the night sky." 

"Aren't some stars bound to die?" 

"Not in our lifetime, my love, not in our lifetime." 

I smile and throw my arms around him, pressing my forehead to his. I notice once more the tears in his eyes, and breath returning to his heaving chest. "I trust you, John, I trust you," I mutter, kissing his brow, his cheeks, his nose, his… mouth.

It is about this moment that we are grossly interrupted by a storm of rage and confusion, as the door nearly falls off its bounds under the hand that swings it open. 

"DOCTOR JOHN WATSON!" Mother yells. "HAVE YOU NO SHAME!" 

We both jump away from each other, trying to conceal the fact that we have not been rubbing our hands all over each other, and that our lips are certainly not pink from some kind of extramarital amusement, yet it is evident that Mother has seen it all, and is about to murder my dear John. 

"To do _this_ to my son!" she shouts, as I stand up, raising both of my hands in order to prevent her from assaulting our guest. "To come, in this home, where you were once invited, to claim back my son, whose heart you have so cruelly broken not even a month ago, that, I cannot—" 

"Mother!" 

"—begin to understand how you can show your face!"

"Lady Holmes, may I—" 

"YOU MAY NOT! The only thing you can do right now is pack your things and—"

"Mother! Everything is fine!" 

She stares at me, too shocked to speak. "Have you lost your mind as well, Sherlock? Everything is _not_ fine!"

I step forward, a smile on my face, before I realise that telling her that John is not in fact in love with Mary but has married her since she is dying and has inherited an Indian treasure from a father she did not know she had, the whole affair being hidden away from me by Anderson who was under Moriarty's evil wing, is not exactly an easy explanation to make. 

"Please, sit down, Mother, we will tell you everything." 

She stares at me as if I am some kind of bumbling fool, but in the end, she drops herself on a chair at the small round table, the one where we would have tea when I invited John over. It seems like a lifetime ago.

We both take place at the table, and John recounts once more the extraordinary events that led to him marrying Mary Morstan, leaving me the parts where I explain how Anderson took part in Moriarty's scheme to make me undesirable to marry, which would have led to Moriarty proposing to me as the only inevitable solution.

Mother listens, her mouth in a fine line, and I can see that she is struggling to accept this most extraordinary tale as truth. 

"Have you seen this money, Dr Watson?" she asks.

"I have," he assures her, "with my own eyes." 

"And there is… enough?"

"Enough and more." 

"And you are sure that Mrs Watson is leaving everything in order? Has her testament been verified by a proper authority?" 

"It has, Lady Holmes, I can assure you that everything is in order." 

"You see, Mother," I chime in, "all is well. Watson has the money to save the estate, surely this dissipates your earlier worries." 

Mother shifts on her chair. "Dr Watson may have the money, but he does not have a title." 

My throat tightens, and I am about to stand up when John puts his hand on top of mine, under the table. Is she truly going to take this away from me, after everything I have gone through?

"Then again," she says, "the point of marriage is that Sherlock can share his."

My heart jumps in my chest, as John's hand tightens on mine. "It is settled, then! As soon as Mary dies, I shall ask, and—" 

"Sherlock," Mother scolds me.

What? What did I say? I turn my head towards John, who slightly shakes it side to side. Not good?

"Should Mrs Watson pass," Mother says, as if it is very possible that it will not happen, "Dr Watson will have to observe the traditional two-year mourning period." 

I gape. "Mother! Two _years_!" 

"It is conventional." 

"I do not care about convention," I say. 

I am about to stand up and walk away when John presses his hand harder to mine. "Lady Holmes is right, Sherlock." 

I turn towards him. "Oh, so you are taking _her_ side." 

"It is not about taking sides," Mother intrudes, putting both her hands on the table. "But Dr Watson is about to inherit a large sum of money, and should he remarry on the following day, there will be reason to be suspicious. Even if Mrs Watson has given you her blessings, the law can always argue that she was coerced in agreeing. You, more than all people, know how easy it is to invent lies to suit the truth. This family cannot afford another scandal." 

I sigh, for there is truth in her words. But two years! Surely we cannot wait this long!

"Please, Sherlock," John says as he leans towards me. "Do not give Moriarty another opportunity to undo everything that we have worked for. I agree with Lady Holmes on this count, but maybe two years is a bit… drastic, considering that I was not married very long to my wife." 

I jump on his words. "Six months!" 

Mother shakes her head. "Two years." 

"A year," John says, his tone gentle, but resolute.

Mother stares at him, as I put my other hand on his. I can see that she is debating with herself from how the corner of her lips is discontent. "Fine," she finally agrees. "A year, but a year before the actual engagement. The preparations for the marriage will only take place after it." 

"Agreed," John says, and I nod. This is as good as it can get.

"And since you are not currently engaged, you will have to be in the presence of a chaperone every time you meet. If anyone asks, you are nothing more than two good friends. Is that clear?" 

"Surely if we are two good friends, Mother," I say, rolling my eyes, "that does not require the presence of a chaperone." 

"Do not try to be clever, young man, I know you perfectly well." 

"We accept," John says, before I can reply. He must be afraid to lose everything he has worked for, to accept this without further debate.

"Good," Mother says, "then I consent to your union."

I will spend many, many hours, later, when John has gone, engraving in my mind every single detail of his smile when he turned his head towards me. _Finally_ , it meant. 

And I smiled back. _Finally_. 

***

As promised to John, I meet Mary Morstan later that week. Lady Margaret accompanies me, as the obligatory chaperone to this little outing. It is only an hour and a half until we reach Miss Morstan's (I cannot for the life of me call her John's name) cottage, and I could not have endured a minute more of Lady Margaret reminiscing out loud every single moment of her last encounters with Lord Harrington. He is courting her properly, now, but I unfortunately believe that the man will take his time to properly go on one knee. Which means more suffering on my part. 

There is, of course, a bit of talk about me and John, and I make her promise not to reveal anything to anybody about the treasure and our long-term plans. If I did not know Lady Margaret, I would think of it as a mistake to confide in her, but over the years I have known her to be a closed book when it came to the secrets I revealed to her (and most of our childhood experiments that went wrong).

Miss Morstan's cottage finally comes into view as Lady Margaret recalls the last time Lord Harrington put his lips to her hand, nearly sending their chaperone into a fit. I straighten myself and glance outside. It is a quaint little thing, really, nothing I would see a soldier such as Sholto living in here, but evidently, the house was passed down generation from generation. I wonder if spending her last days in her father's house is bringing Mary Morstan comfort in her final hours. Can anyone truly be comforted when dying?

I never asked myself the question. Dying is an inevitability. From dust to dust. I always knew this, even before the other children were made aware. It has never frightened me, nor has the idea of dying young particularly affected me. In my dark hours, especially when I would abuse substances, death seemed to me an ideal door to the physical and spiritual cage I was in. Yet now, when I think about it, I can sense the fear low in my stomach. I could easily fall ill tomorrow, or be trampled by a horse next week, and I would never see my marriage to John become true. I would never see London. I would never lie with him. I would never do the many things that life has suddenly put away just for me. 

The fear gives in when I think of _his_ death. Surely there is no world in which John Watson dies before me. I will make sure of it. 

I swallow. "Stay here," I order Lady Margaret. "I will not be long." 

No, I do not intend to take the whole day to make conversation with a dying woman. With the wife of my lover. With the woman who solved all of our problems in a single trip to India.

I step out of the carriage and knock at the door of the cottage at the end of the little path. The gardens must have been beautiful, a few years ago, but they have not been cared for, probably since Sholto has left for war. And he did not have a wife nor children, well, apart from—

John opens the door, his face tired, but nonetheless smiles at my sight. He is only wearing a shirt and a waistcoat, quite dirtied from fluids he must work with as a doctor. 

"Sherlock," he says, as I enter to greet him, taking off my top hat. He gently cradles my face with both of his hands, and kisses my forehead. "Thank you for coming." 

"She will not like me," I whisper, looking at him.

"Of course she will."

I snort. "John, she will not like me. And if she does not like me, she will refuse to—"

"Please, my love," he says, with his hands still on the sides of my face. "I like you, and therefore, she will as well." 

I lick my lips, unconvinced by John's logic. 

"Come here and meet her." He lets go of me, and travels to the small room at the end of the cottage as I follow him. 

Miss Morstan is lying in bed, her head supported by many pillows as her eyes are fixed somewhere on the other side of the window. The whole room is welcoming, with many flowers and plants displayed, all bathed in the soft afternoon sunlight.

"Mary, dear," John says, softly. "Mr Holmes is here to see you." 

When she turns her head, I can finally understand John's words when he said that she does not have weeks left to live. Her face is frighteningly pale, her cheekbones prominent as she must have lost a great deal of weight in the past few months. Her blond, wavy hair is without glow and her grey eyes are pale, surrounded by dark circles digging in her face. 

Nonetheless, she smiles at the sight of me. 

"Mr Holmes," she says, her voice raspy.

She wiggles in bed in order to prop herself into a half-sitting position, and John surges forward to help her position the pillows accordingly. 

"Thank you," she whispers to him. "Now, John, will you go make tea for us, please?"

John looks at her a second, and understanding that he is dismissed for now, nods and leaves the room. I cannot help but notice how she uses his first name so naturally. I trust John, and it is evident that there is affection between them and nothing more, but it surprises me nonetheless. Then, John did say that they consider themselves brother and sister, which can explain the lack of formal address. 

It takes another moment before Miss Morstan speaks again, as I intend to let her have the first word, for she was the one wishing to speak to me in the first place. 

"Mr Holmes," she repeats, with a small nod. 

"Miss Morstan." 

She smiles. "It is Mrs Watson, now, I believe," she says, and although it is clear she is teasing me, it is without venom. 

I frown, less than pleased. "I have not come here for you to flaunt that fact in my face." 

"Please, sit down," she says, pointing at the chair at the small desk displaying medicine and a big bowl of water, apparently not keen on answering me. "Let's talk from one Mrs Watson to a soon-to-be Mr Watson." 

My eyebrow raise, probably comically, and I fetch the chair from the other side of the room. I do not correct Miss Morstan on the fact that the names will be the other way around — John may have the money, but I have the title. Not that I would refuse bearing his name; far from it. 

When I am seated, Miss Morstan looks outside the window, her gaze lost for a few seconds. I wait, tapping my fingers on my thigh, wondering when this charade will end and when I will be able to return home. I rarely had the desire to be back at Sherrinford, but this situation is highly uncomfortable. 

She turns her head towards me and opens her mouth as if to speak, but closes it. 

I shuffle on my chair, barely restraining a groan. 

"I can see why he likes you," she finally says, a smile on her face. Again, it is spoken without jealousy or anger, but like a simple fact. Still, I want to scoff at her. He does not like me. He _loves_ me. "I have heard a lot about you, Mr Holmes, I wanted to see you for myself. To understand what I am giving John, after I am gone. To assure myself that what I am doing is right, that it will secure him a few years of happiness, at least, when he never had as many." 

I frown. "John is a war hero," I point out. He has known glorious years. Maybe he has not been himself since his injury, but surely, before that…

"Have you ever known a hero to be happy, Mr Holmes?"

I swallow. 

"No," she concludes. "The two people who know him the most may be sitting in this room, but even between us, there is so much that goes unnoticed. Do you care to know why I said that he likes you? It is evident from the way your eyes move when you enter a room. You see everything, Mr Holmes, and you see him like no one else has done before. Do not lose sight of him, for soon, the number of people who know him, who truly do, will be cut by half. Do not lose sight of him, for John may love like a doctor, but he grieves like a soldier." 

I frown, not entirely sure what she means by it. I always hate it when people use needless metaphors instead of communicating their thoughts logically. 

I open my mouth, unsure of the words I want to use next, but she beats me to it. 

"At least you have some power upon him," she sighs, "for you made him shave that god-awful moustache." 

I bark out a laugh, caught by surprise, the old image of John's face with that awful thing on his face popping back into my mind. "I see that you have good taste, Mrs Watson," I chuckle.

"Oh please, it's not good taste, just common decency. He should have been arrested for it." 

We are still laughing when John pops back into the room, smiling and wondering about what we are talking about , which only makes us laugh even harder, until Mary is caught by a fit of coughing and John props her up to help her drink from her warm cup. 

We share tea laughing and smiling, John and Mary reminiscing about old orphanage stories — the good ones — the three of us plunged into blissful ignorance of the very near future. When John sits back by my side, Mary does not blink when he naturally weaves his fingers in mine, bringing my hand into his lap, but she smiles instead, something private, something secret, that I barely catch. The rest of the hour passes, another hour in another bright afternoon, three people sharing tea as if not about to be struck by irremediable tragedy.

When the sun starts to vanish, I remember Lady Margaret in the carriage (most likely plunged in a deep reading of a new scientific publication), and have to excuse myself. 

Just as John fetches my coat outside of the room, Mary sighs. "I am not afraid about what is to come, Mr Holmes, in fact, I am quite relieved about it. The pain, you see. Still, it feels as if there is so much I am leaving behind," she says, her eyes on John's back.

I am about to leave the room, but turn on myself, to face her. "I will make sure that he is going to be the first," I finally say. "I promise." 

She slowly nods, with a fierceness in her eyes I could never have associated with a dying woman before. 

***

It happens nearly a week later. It is Mycroft who tells me, as I am reading in my rooms, although it takes me one look at his face to know what has happened. 

"Miss Morstan?" I ask.

"Indeed," he says, without correcting me on the name. 

Something boils inside me, then, something akin to excitement. This is it. In one year, exactly, John and I will be officially engaged. 

"How is he?" I ask, rising from my armchair. Excited as well? Restless facing the prospect of everything that is about to come?

Mycroft can only shrug. "I believe it would be wise to check on him yourself, brother mine."

I raise an eyebrow at him. Surely he does not expect me to leave Sherrinford after having moved Heaven and Earth to keep me barricaded in here.

"Go," he says, "I will tell Mother that you are sick and sleeping in my quarters, not to be disturbed. I expect you to be back first thing tomorrow morning."

This is how I find myself, not even an hour later, on Blaze's back, kicking her to her fastest canter as I ride her through the woods. I nearly forget to breathe as I feel Sherrinford getting further in my back, and John closer, with every stride that Blaze takes. I will soon be in John's arms, and we have the entire night before us — surely we will make good use of it. 

I drop from my saddle as soon as I pull Blaze to a stop in front of Mary's cottage. She died yesterday, as Mycroft said earlier, but today was her funeral, and I expect John to spend the night here, since she is to be buried in the village's cemetery.

I rope Blaze to the nearest post, and make my way towards the cottage. After knocking twice without an answer, I decide to push the door myself, and enter the clearly empty house. 

It feels strange to be back so soon enough, after so much has changed. Even the cottage seems to feel it. The rooms appear smaller, stuffier than they were days ago. 

Silently, I progress without meaning to towards Mary's room, where I talked to her last time. The bed is unmade, and a few objects are thrown on the floor, along with what used to be the bowl full of water. I can see it clearly now, the moment John discovered her without breath to her chest and pulse to her wrist. She was lying down, according to the pillows, and so it must have been morning when he made the dreadful discovery, before moving to the medicine cabinet, trying to retrieve anything that could save her and did not, along with the stethoscope for one final check of her heart. He has clung to her body, going by the disruption in the sheets. 

My heart sinks low, before my thoughts are interrupted by the opening of a door.

"Someone here?" John asks, tightly, his senses alerted. 

I breathe in, and move back to the small entrance. I cannot hide the smile spreading on my face when I see John, dressed in all black, still in his hat.

I take two steps as I raise my arms in order to wrap myself around him, before his fist hits the small table near the door. "What are you doing here?" he barks. 

Anger. 

I see it now. Of all things… Of all things, I would not have thought he would be angry. 

"You have no right to be here," John says, as he looks down. His whole body seems to be trembling. 

Two things happen at once in my mind, brought by two different voices.

 _What did you imagine?_ Mycroft sneers. _That he would jump into your arms right away? His wife — his lifelong friend, if you oppose the first term, has just died, Sherlock. This is a grieving man. This is what a grieving man looks like._

 _He will grieve like a soldier_ , Mary reminds me. 

I must say I never was as unsure in nearly twenty-one years of life as I am in this moment, slowly advancing towards John, who, from the look in his eyes, might very well hit me for overstepping invisible boundaries. 

It is awkward when I close my arms around him, unsure how to proceed with this kind of physical demonstration, before I feel his body melt against mine.

"John," I whisper, finding myself short of comforting words. 

His shoulders shake, once, twice, before I understand he is sobbing in my arms, his hands clenched in the fabric of my coat.

"John," I say again, standing there like a fool.

A muffled wail answers me. 

I breathe out, my hand drawing circles upon John's back. There is nothing for me to do but direct him towards the nearest room (the guest room, which he has used for the past weeks), and make him lie down against me on the bed. He weeps, and I hold him until he falls asleep in my arms, tracks of tears on his cheeks, his eyelids puffed. He looks like a young child, and for a moment, I can very clearly imagine the orphan he once was, finding comfort in companionship in the friend he just lost.

When I will reflect upon that night in the future, it is always with the hindsight that I had previously committed the grave mistake of being blinded by my own cleverness. My own understanding about John, about Mary, about love and pain and loss. Unlike the false idea that coming into society or having my virtue taken, would turn me in a single day into the man I already believed I was, the very knowledge that some things were not accessible to me _yet,_ was what truly set in motion the most incomprehensible process of coming of age.

But then, life would be incredibly dull if it always went as planned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Name one hero who was happy."  
> I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason's children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus' back.  
> "You can't." He was sitting up now, leaning forward.  
> "I can't."  
> "I know. They never let you be famous and happy." He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll tell you a secret."  
> "Tell me." I loved it when he was like this.  
> "I'm going to be the first."  
> \- The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
> 
> I have not yet answered all of your comments but I'm working on it! As always, thank you for your support. I promise fluff from next chapter on. And the chapter count as been edited to 19!


	13. Chapter 13

Times passes, as it does. 

The morning after the funeral sees me leaving at first light, not before kissing my love's cheeks, as he lay asleep in bed. My return is swift and I climb my way to Mycroft's quarters. Mother visits me after breakfast, clearly doubting Mycroft's word about me being ill, but does not remark on it when she finally sees me well. Evidently, whatever had happened during the night has returned me to Sherrinford alive and virginal, so there is clearly no reason to fret.

There are some matters to be settled before I can rejoice, and I invite Lord Howard to Sherrinford in order to break off the engagement. One look at me, and his face takes the colour of ash. The conversation that follows is short, and courteous. He understands my reasons, although it pains him. He believes he has lost me to a younger man, even though I keep telling him my affair with John began long before he was himself in the picture. In the end, he admits that a man such as Dr Watson is better suited for me. He does not remark on John's lack of title, and his weak smile assures me that he truly believes so. Just before parting, I unexpectedly tell him that he is a good man, and he should not have any trouble finding himself a more promising spouse, one that can truly love him in return. What is even more unexpected is the passionate kiss that he leaves upon my lips before climbing into his carriage, nothing like the chaste little things we used to exchange, and I understand then that it is not about him being loved, but about him being with me. This last goodbye leaves me confused, and slightly flustered. There are things in life that I learn are impossible to explain.

John visits, and Mother exercises her right by asking that a chaperone should be placed with us at all times. Lady Margaret fills the role, and although there is nothing to reproach us in the first few times we meet after Miss Morstan's death, John distant in his grieving, she soon learns to pick up a book and not mind us as we spend afternoons entangled on the loveseat. She is lax in her chaperoning, and it is as well, because with the cold winter setting in, John and I cannot find refuge in the old barn unless we want to lose limbs due to the early frost.

We spend most of our time in the library, leaning on each other as we discuss, laugh and read. John recounts his exploits as a soldier, and sometimes even makes up stories about his time in India, or (my favourite) what it would be like if we were both pirates of the Caribbean Sea, fighting enemies in intricate plots, but always victorious and together at the end of the day. I used to find romance, and happy endings, entirely unnecessary, but I can see now how much colour they add to his stories. To _our_ story. 

When I speak in turn, it is to tell him of my most interesting cases, and he drinks every single word out of my mouth as if I were the best of storytellers. What I like most is when he stops my monologue to insist on certain aspects of the story, most of the time centred about my reasoning or me solving a certain clue, only to let out a compliment as a genuine exclamation. It pleases me very much so.

I show him my laboratory, and I allow him to work with me on certain experiments in relevance to the human body or any knowledge he might have acquired during his education. I learn a lot, and he does too, when I talk about science and such. I explain to him what I read from Lamarck, a naturalist whose theory on how species are not fixed. They either go up or down a ladder of complexity due to an alchemical complexifying force, and adapt to their environment from use or disuse of certain characteristics, which in time differentiates a species from another. He is most fascinating, and John listens to me as I read his theory in French and then translate in English. Lady Margaret, who has always been fond of naturalism, is also secretly interested in my recounting of Lamarck's works, but keep telling us that there seems to be more to it than we might think. That this Lamarck is only at the very beginning of something bigger. John finds it concerning, for we know so many things now that it is strange to imagine ourselves discovering new theories, and surely Lamarck must be right if he can prove his theories truly function in nature. I, for myself, find it all fascinating. I could maybe do one or two experiments about it. 

Sometimes, when there is not much to discuss, John watches me as I train Jack into doing tricks. And if there are some times, when, in the deep of the winter, we found ourselves indulging in a few, slow, deep kisses, in front of the fireplace, Lady Margaret bends further over her book, only to clear her throat once in a while.

Christmas is a sad and lonely affair, not that I ever cared much about it in the first place. Mother invites every possible cousin, aunt, uncle, grandparent and wailing child to Sherrinford, whilst John is in London until New Year. There is a little young lady, something between two and six years of age (I must admit I have no idea when it comes to children), which has taken some liking to me, as she clings to my breeches in order to walk from one place to another, and follows me everywhere. She gargles something incomprehensible when dinner is called, and her mother translates it as her asking me to accompany her to the dinner table. The whole company makes a show to coo and chuckle over us as the little lady takes me by the finger and leads me to the dinner table, visibly delighted to parade at my side. When dinner is done, she insists upon staying with me although all the younger children are playing an endless game of Snap Dragon, both factors distracting my reading. I finally pick her up and set her against me, as I read my alchemistry handbook out loud to her until she falls asleep halfway through the evening. 

New Year's is even more of a sad and lonely affair, spent miles and miles away from John. Yet I know that things are about to change. 

They do, exactly six days later.

***

My birthday has never been a grand affair since I went away to school and came back as a man. Another birthday simply meant another year caged in this dreadful place, even if it meant a year less before my coming of age.

I was mistaken to think that this birthday would not be different, yet I could not chase off the feeling of excitation and hope that arose in me as I woke up this morning, officially twenty-one years of age. Able to marry without consent. I rolled in bed a few times, considering taking the first carriage to London and going down on one knee before John to cut short the long months we still have to wait in order to properly become husbands. In the end, I do no such thing, of course, because that would mean making an enemy of my family, and if I do not care for that at all, John does. 

John, who will be here later today. 

I invited him, of course, along with the many people Mother made sure would be here too. In other families, birthdays are not much celebrated, but Mother believes it to be a good occasion to entertain the family for a night, in order to show that we are still alive and doing well, I suppose. I usually hate it, but tonight is a good excuse to see John. We will have to act as if we are not lovers, since he is still officially grieving his wife, and we will, as always, be chaperoned should we decide to spend some time alone. But maybe, maybe there is a way to sneak upstairs when everybody will be drunk and playing whist, and maybe, maybe then, John will…

It is my birthday, after all. A man can dare to hope. 

At five, the company _finally_ arrives. I can see the line of carriages progressing towards the main entrance to the hall. I recognise a few of my great-cousins and great-aunts and uncles, none of whom I care about, but that will entertain my parents whilst I speak with more important people. I finally distinguish Stamford's carriages in the distance, as he comes with Lady Margaret, Lord Harrington and a few of their friends. John should be amongst them, as he is bound to stay the night at their manor. 

I slide down the handrail to Sherrinford's main hall, Mother's eyes heavy on me as I am late to greet our first guests.

I salute great-aunt Anne, her daughter, her daughter's husband and their three children with the fakest smile I can muster, before I see John entering through the main doors, behind Lady Margaret. 

I greet her rather absent-mindedly, before John comes to shake my hand. "Holmes," he says, a smile on the corner of his lips, "happy birthday, dear fellow." 

I nearly snort at his words, but I know he is being as ironic as the situation demands. 

I am rather taken away with his grey suit. It is not new, no, for no amount of newly found money can make John change his ways, but it is the fact that it is _grey_. John seems to have got out of his usual mourning clothes for tonight, and I cannot be more thankful for it, especially if this evening goes the way I intended to. I do not wish to lie with a mourning widower, or a man that dresses like one. 

"Dr Watson," I reply, with a nod of my head, before the next guest in line clears her throat.

We must part, and we only see each other again as we are seated for dinner, unfortunately quite far from each other. This distance makes my skin crawl, for I cannot stand the separation when we are so close… It has been so long, I have not seen him in more than a month, for Heaven's sake!

I am seated beside some kind of fool of my age, who must be a great-little-far-fetched-something cousin of mine, who insist that coming of age must be accompanied with a great deal of wine. It is an idiot's idea, of course, but when I see John, his head turned towards a younger woman, engaged in conversation, wine does not seem that bad. _And_ being twenty-one only happens once. 

Later on — much later on, although I have no idea if a great deal or a great… little of time has passed, for laughing in my cousin's face proved to be an entertainment, we are brought to the drawing room where I am about to receive my gifts. 

I stumble onto the nearest armchair, as people gather around me. It is another thing I despise, being the centre of attention in such company, because it often means that I have to behave, and behave I usually do not.

Most of the gifts are brought by closer family members, since again, this is not a tradition much followed, even amongst noble people. I receive a few items of clothing, mostly from Mother (and therefore, Father), books from Mycroft, a few flower bouquets for reasons I cannot begin to understand, along with other, uninteresting items I deduce right away.

And then, it is John's turn, and although I am not surprised he brought me something, I am most enthralled when I open the box to discover a violin. Not _any_ violin.

"A Stradivarius," I breathe out.

Anyone who knows the name gasps, as my eyes lock with John's. He should not have. For God's sake, the man cannot buy himself a new suit, but gets me the most costly instrument he can find!

"It is, dear friend," John answers me, a careful smile on his face, as if I would not like it (as if there is a chance!). "Only the best, for the best player I know." 

I swallow, my fingers carefully running on the polished wood of the violin. I gently take it in one hand and caress one of the chords — the sounds vibrates across the room like I have never seen a violin do. 

"Will you play something for us, Mr Holmes?" Lady Margaret, sitting on an armchair Lord Harrington is leaning against, asks.

I do not know what to do. I have drunk my fair share of wine, and do not wish to perform in front of such a crowd, but I cannot wait to try the violin and must somehow thank John at the same time. 

I rise on my feet, pick the bow accompanying the gifts, and a few people make way for me at the centre of the room, gently applauding the upcoming performance. 

I lick my lips one last time, and raise my bow. This time, just like last, I do not let John go of my sight. Oh, how many things have changed since then! Yet I did play for him on the first night we met, and I do play for him tonight as well, on the violin he bought with the money that assures our union, which will soon make him my husband and I, his. 

I play Beethoven, because tonight, I may feel a bit romantic at heart. 

***

I am applauded generously as soon as I finish, and without a word, I travel the room to put back the Stradivarius in safety. I want to find John, and kiss him, and let him do all kinds of things to me.

The crowd breaks in murmurs and whispers, as if not daring to raise their voices after contemplating the last silences left behind music, and I know that they are talking about us. About the generosity of such a gift offered to a friend. About the fact that I played, and that I gazed upon him as I did. About the fact that he did not break eye contact during the whole piece.

They are murmuring, but what they are seeing is not the entire truth. Lady Margaret's friends, standing beside her, are laughing and throwing me all kinds of looks. It is clear that they believe that the extravagant gift is a first step in courtship, and that John, upon gaining new money, has intentions of marrying someone with a title. Or is it the most dramatic version — the one where he has loved me since the start, but can only now make his advances as his pockets are full of gold?

"It seems like Dr Watson has taken a liking to you," one of Lady Margaret's friend whispers to my ears. 

Heat rises to my face (if only she knew), but before I can answer, Father comes to stand in the middle of the room.

"Well, who wants to play a game of whist?" he exclaims.

I, along with a few younger people, groan. 

"Lord Holmes," Lady Margaret intervenes. "Surely whist is not a game suited for younger people celebrating a birthday!" 

"If I may," her friend says, "I agree with Lady Margaret. We can take the other room and play our own games, if you would agree to it." 

"As if your own games are not deprived of morality!" an older lady, clearly a chaperone, barks. 

"Oh, please, Lord Holmes!" a third lady begs. "It is your son's birthday! Let us have some fun tonight! We will be in the next room, surely nothing bad will happen!"

Mother is clearly not amused, but Father groans, defeated. "All right."

A few cries of joy echo here and there, and I close my eyes, considering if I should flee now or run for the door when the men will sit down for whist.

"No chaperones?" one of the ladies asks, with glee in her eyes. 

"No chaperones," Father concedes, although with difficulty. 

Mother gapes at him, and the old chaperone sits up, before sitting back down again, muttering to herself. "Oh, come on, let the young ones have their fun. We surely did, when we were their age," he adds, with a wink to Mother, and I have never wanted more to explode into thin air. 

Before I can do anything about it, the younger ladies seize me by my arms and drag me to the nearest room, where a few chairs, tapestry and old objects are evidently waiting to be destroyed.

Slightly dizzy, I collect myself when Lord Harrington puts a glass of wine in my hand. "What for?" 

"Oh, you will need it," he adds, with yet another wink. 

Has everyone tonight decided to communicate by winks? Did I not get the note about it? 

I gulp down the drink, but before I can finish, a lady throws John in my direction before slamming the doors close behind them. The wine in my glass dangerously dances before I retain John from further collapsing into me by putting my hand on his chest.

"What—" he starts, but his words are cut short as the room goes entirely dark.

A few cries echo here and there, along with giggles and the sound of running feet. I am way too drunk to deduce anything about this.

"I— Sh— Holmes— watch out," John says, placating himself against me.

I feel something in my back, akin to fabric brushing against me, but my attention is redirected upon John as he does a sound I have never heard him do before. He _squeals_. 

"Was that you?" he breathes out, as the giggling continues around us, accompanied with a few _whooooo_ s that could be a bad rendition of what ghosts must sound like if they existed in the first place. 

"What do you mean by _that_?"

"I mean— did you just grab… my arse?"

I erupt in laughter, my head falling against his shoulder. _Arse_! Oh God, there is definitely no way to escape this now.

I am about to answer him when a light appears somewhere in front of us. A lady gasps, and we all turn our heads (for I can see now in the near-darkness we are plunged in) to witness Lady Margaret's face illuminated by the faint glow of a candle. 

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," she says, with a voice that is meant to be full of mystery, "to the _game_ room."

Everyone cheers, and even I cannot hide a smile from spreading on my face as I rub my forehead against John's shoulder. Here, in the darkness, I encircle one of my arms around his waist, my drink still in my other hand, and the tension finally melts away from his body. He was truly prepared to defend me against whatever threat the lack of light opposed. How lucky he is, to have been of low birth and therefore never experienced one of these game rooms before! But well, if he is to stay by my side tonight, maybe this will not prove to be too much of a challenge…

"Tonight," Lady Margaret continues her speech, words that have been repeated again and again from game room to game room, "you will be challenged and tried in different ways, and this is why you must find a suitable… partner for the evening. Now, when the room is still plunged in darkness, find your way towards the person to whom you will have to forfeit tonight, or be forfeited to… For love is blind, and all is fair in love and war." 

A few steps echo around the room again, and John lifts his head, questioning. "Stay here," I whisper to him, my hold strong on his waist. A minute passes, or so, and then: "Lord Harrington, if you please?" 

"My lady," comes the reply, and one by one, Harrington lights the candles again.

I slightly let go of John, who turns on himself, noticing how everyone has paired up. We are six couples in total: John and me, Lady Margaret and Lord Harrington, Lady Grace with Lady Hope (Lady Margaret's friends, Lady Grace being clearly sweet for Lady Hope, but does not know if it is reciprocal or not), Lord Stephen (a cousin) with Lady Jane, Lord Aaron (another cousin) with Lady Isabella, and the last couple whom I do not recall their names.

John frowns and looks at me. 

"Do not worry, I will explain it to you," I say, before we are chased away from the middle of the room because Harrington and Lady Margaret are assembling chairs in a circle. Oh God, Blind Man's Bluff seems to be first on the list.

"Hot cockles," I whisper under my breath, coming to a realisation.

"I'm sorry," John gasps, "but _what_?"

"Mr Holmes," Lady Margaret says, predictably. "Since it is your birthday, will you do the honours?" 

I groan. "If I must." I let go of a confused John, and deposit my drink on the nearest surface. 

"Oh, please, do not give me that look. You are the best at this game and you know it." 

I shrug, but let her pass the blindfold over my eyes, carefully attaching it at the back of my head. "Do explain the rules, will you?" I ask. 

"Yes, yes. This is Blind Man's Bluff," Lady Margaret says, raising her voice as if she is explaining the rules to all and not to John in particular. Obviously everyone here but for him knows about the game. "As soon as the Blind Man, or Woman, wears the blindfold, you are asked to choose a seat in silence. The Blind Man will be turned three times in one direction, and three times in the other, after which he must go around the circle and choose a participant and guess their identity. The chosen participant may not speak, and the Blind Man is allowed to touch the participant… anywhere. Any questions?" A silence. "All right, choose your seats."

"Ready?" she whispers to me.

I nod, and she pushes my shoulders three times in one direction, three times in the other, before letting go of me altogether. I stumble slightly, for I have to admit I never did play the game with that much alcohol in my body, before I spring into a quick run around the circle of chairs, as I hear a few illegal giggles here and there. 

These games have never been too serious, and it is certainly not the point for them to be so. I must admit that I am the best at it, for I can deduce anyone, blindfolded, deaf, whatever the circumstances may be. But never before I had someone in particular that I wanted to deduce. 

I finally slow down my run to a walk, and change directions. I open my eyes under the blindfold, to understand that Lady Margaret has given me the opaque one — clearly, she knows I can find Watson without cheating. Where would be the fun in that anyway?

I do another lap around the chairs, my pace definitely slower. I listen to breathing patterns, to the fabric of dresses catching against the wood of the chair, analyse the tension that has now arisen amongst the participants. With every step I take, I discard the lord or lady sitting to my right, until my feet stop in front of another chair. The stranger's breath sticks in their throat, in a nearly inaudible gasp, but it is enough for me to turn on myself and face them, a smile on my face. 

Oh, I wonder how he looks, right now.

"Mr Holmes," Lady Margaret says. "Do you intend to play hot cockles' version?" 

I grin. "I _always_ play hot cockles." God. I had too much to drink. 

"To the designated participant, do you consent to hot cockles? Nod if you do." 

He nods. I know he does, even though he has no idea what all of this means. 

"All right. Mr Holmes, you may proceed."

I smile again, in the direction of the stranger-not-so-stranger. With my fingers linked in my back (it is more polite that way), I stumble on my knees, and without further delay, gently ease my head upon his lap. 

"Well!" I exclaim. "It is a man!" 

Giggles erupt right and left, and the belly that I am blindly facing contracts in a _soubresaut_. I lick my lips, and stay there for another moment, feeling how the right thigh is slightly more tense than the left. How the fabric of his clothing betrays the fact that he is wearing trousers and not breeches. This is way too easy. 

I rub the side of my head to his lap one more time, before I push myself up again. Slightly dizzy from the motion, I let myself fall into sitting on John's lap with a half-whispered _oof_ , less gracefully than I intended to, before weaving my arms around his shoulders.

"Definitely a man," I whisper, conscious of the closeness of his body, of the proximity we have not been allowed to share in months. 

I lean back slightly in order to trail one of my hands on his torso, feeling the fabric of his waistcoat, of his shirt underneath, the heaviness of his pocket watch against his side. My hand reaches his cravat, and I tug a bit to reveal a flash of pale skin I do not see. A smile on my face, I lean in, and press my nose to his skin there, to smell. His breath sticks somewhere deep in his belly but he nonetheless slightly tilts his head, allowing me better access.

"I know that smell," I whisper, only for him to hear. He tenses even more, if that were possible.

I instinctively know that all eyes are on us, as much as they can see me whilst still being seated in a circle, but I do not shy away from my little demonstration, emboldened by alcohol. My head terribly light, I apply my hands to John's hair, feeling the short strands caress my palms. My fingers then press his forehead, my thumbs running along his strong eyebrows before meeting at the bridge between them. My right thumb travels down the straight line of his nose, and dips over his Cupid's bow, before I trace the fine, chapped line of his mouth. I wonder for a moment if his tongue will meet my thumb, but he does no such thing. A pity. 

"I know those lips," I breathe out. 

A few gasps, along with giggles, spark around us at this revelation, but I am convinced that John is entirely deaf to these reactions. It shall certainly constitute the scandal of the night, Mr Holmes admitting to having already kissed the widowed and terribly rich Dr John Watson, but I am too drunk to care at all. Evidently, our company was already scheming for us to end together by the end of the evening, and I shall not disappoint. 

I take my hands away from John's face. "It seems that I have won, Dr Watson," I say, before lifting the blindfold off my eyes and unto my forehead, without bothering with the knot behind my head.

"It certainly does," John says, admitting defeat, his hands still limply by his side. Dear God, what I would give for him to put those around my waist, and kiss me like I deserve so. 

The few people around us cheer, for I have won, but I do not mind them for I am grinning at the sight of John, still comfortably perched on his lap. I can see words written on his face, in the curve of his lifted eyebrows: _Really? Was that entirely necessary?_

 _You clearly have not played hot cockles before_ , I think to myself as I gently ease myself off him. It is with pride and triumph that I watch from the corner of his eyes as he discreetly shifts upon his chair.

The game was not so much about deducing his identity — that was already a given. 

No, the game was won when I felt his definitive interest growing under me, sitting in his lap.

***

We play every kind of game there is, from a few more rounds of Hot Cockles to Snap Dragon, including Move-All. The latter is the only one where John wins over me, only because I let the blindfolded man get a good grab at me as we run around the room from chair to chair. At the end of the night, he has three forfeits in my favour, and I have one in his. It does not escape my notice that every couple seems to be having a grand time, especially Lady Hope, having finally understood her friend's intention, and fully reciprocated by the time we were playing word games. 

The candles are burning dangerously low when Lady Margaret finally calls for the forfeits to be handed, and every couple scramble towards a small corner of privacy. 

I take a still-confused John by the wrist, and lead him through the first door to the smaller room where we usually have tea. Silence closes around us as he shuts the door to the darkened room we are in, for the staff has not left any candles here. 

Without a word, I tug John to the window, where the moonlight is stronger and defines the contour of his face and body in a soft gray glow. In a harsh movement, I draw the curtains around us, blocking us from the rest of the noise and light coming from the game room. 

John's body brushes against my own, constrained by the exiguous space I have just arranged for us. For a second, our breaths mingle as no one dares to speak. I gaze at him as if it were the first time, and I know he is thinking the same.

I hook a finger in his cravat. Heavens above, I desire him so much. And I know he does me. 

My words are the first to break the comfortable silence growing around us. "I have to claim my forfeits." 

"And what exactly constitutes a forfeit?" 

I grin. "Kiss me." 

He chuckles in return, not without irony, as if coming to a sudden understanding. "I see."

"Oh please," I say, "you know very well what is the point of… all of this," I add, with a wave of my hand. 

"Yes," he says. "Games of courtship. I came to an understanding whilst you were sitting on my lap, touching my _mouth_." 

"John?" 

"Yes?" 

I may, or may not, be pouting. 

He chuckles once more, and lifts my hand to his lips, before pressing them to my knuckles. "There, your kiss," he says. 

"That does not count as a real kiss." 

"And what would a real kiss be?"

"John," I sigh. He is making a fool of himself just to make me squirm. He too has had a lot to drink tonight. "On the mouth, of course," I finally say, because it is clear John will not proceed without the precise words to guide his actions. 

"All right, then." 

He leans in and kisses me on the mouth, chastely, without a hint of his tongue, and it takes me to wrap my arms around him to keep him in place for more than a bare second. Dear Lord, I will have to work for it. 

When we part, his arms are equally embracing me. I can see him well in the moonlight, and distinguish the playful spark in his eyes. "And what shall you ask me to do with your last forfeit?" 

"I still have two," I counter. 

He smiles. "No, two kisses, two forfeits." 

"The first one did not count." 

"It did," he says. "You did not specify the exact terms of the kiss, therefore it could be left to interpretation." 

I groan, defeated. How is John able to think so much and this well after three glasses of wine? "Fine. One last forfeit, then." 

His eyebrow raise, waiting for my word as I tighten my arms around him. Surely he is able to understand without me saying so, but he has just proven that he will not do anything I do not explicitly specify out loud. Damn. 

I am about to speak when the door to the small room slams open, and two silhouettes stumble inside, giggling and holding themselves. Lady Grace looks up and sees us at once, now barely contained by the curtains. 

"Oh! Heavens! My apologies," she exclaims, before both of them flop on a single armchair, in a flurry of silk and lace, heavily embracing one another. 

I groan again, dropping my forehead against John's shoulder. It is clear that the young ladies will not clear the room in order to restore our privacy. "Let's find somewhere else," I say, before John kisses me in agreement. 

Without another word, I let go of John and tug him by the sleeve, not in the direction of the game room, but to the other door.

You may imagine my surprise when upon entering the room, ten pairs of older gentlemen's eyes fall upon us, game of whist momentarily forgotten.

"Wrong door…" John provides me in a whisper, as he steps behind me. As if it is not evident to me. 

I blindly hit him in the thigh with the side of my fist, before pulling at his wrist to travel through the room at once. "Gentlemen," I salute them, without raising my eyes from the floor as we pass in front of the table. Their eyes are on us (Father's eyes, for God's sake!), and I know that they see two young men bearing the traces of kissing upon their lips, one with his cravat half-undone. Two men who have never been seen together before, one of which is a widower still grieving. 

It seems like a small eternity before we cross under the following set of doors, which I shut as soon as John has stepped behind me. There is a moment of silence on both sides, and then, of all things, I hear Father chuckling. "That ought to please the chaperones," his voice resonates. "Maybe we should call Dr Kent should any of them have an attack." 

Without waiting for further reasons to make this situation more awkward than it already is, I start walking again, John trailing after me as the obedient puppy he seems to have become.

There is no way we will make it upstairs, not with the staff nor the women in one of the adjacent rooms. Again, our only choice is outside. 

The cold air vivifies me as we step onto the balcony, illuminated here and there by the open windows. Checking for signs of life around us, I do not see it coming when John grabs me to place my back against the outside wall, behind a shutter. 

"I love it when you are flustered like so," he says, which makes no sense at all because I am not flustered, but I do not protest as he seizes me in a burning kiss. 

"John," I whisper in the kiss, my hands already on his waist. I feel hot in the same place I was earlier, when sitting upon his lap, and I know he does too. 

"I could do all kinds of things to you," he grumbles.

It is what I was waiting to hear. "It _is_ my birthday." 

He laughs, and presses kisses to my jaw, my neck. I feel the quite shameful need to rub against him, his body pressed to mine, but I dare not move. He might find it entirely inappropriate.

He is undoing my cravat for better access to my neck when a window opens to our left.

" _GENTLEMEN_!" Mother roars. 

With a slight gasp, John presses me against the wall, trying to hide himself as well behind the shutter. We cannot see her like that, and she cannot see us. 

"Spare me, Sherlock, I know you are there, I can see both pairs of feet." 

Ah. I miscalculated that. Silence on our part. John smiles, playfully, his bottom lip between his teeth. His body is warm against me, not like the wall behind me. 

"Have you no shame, Dr Watson?" she continues. "I thought our agreement was clear, yet it seems like you made a circus of your mutual affection earlier today, and now I can bet that your hands are on my son in ways that they should not be touching him."

He huffs a laugh, the air hitting my neck, my cheeks. Slowly, he lets go of me. Damn. 

"Sherlock, you will return to your room, and if Thomas does not see you there in five minutes, I may as well entirely reconsider our arrangement with Dr Watson." 

I groan. As soon as the window shuts again, with more force than necessary, both John and I erupt in laughter, euphoric.

"Good Lord," he says, pecking kisses upon my lips. "The mighty dragon— has found— our hideaway."

"There is a lot we can achieve in five minutes." 

"How much time does it take you to get to your room?" 

"Two minutes. One, if I run." 

"Oh," he says, "you _will_ run."

I laugh, and he wraps his arms around my middle again, pressing his forehead to mine. "I love you," he says, plainly.

"I love you as well, dear John."

I think it is the first time I have ever called him a sweet name, and he kisses me for it, passionately, his hands on my face. 

"Go, now, or you will not be on time," he says when he lets go. 

"Are you staying at Stamford's?"

"Yes."

"Will you visit tomorrow?" 

"I will try, my love, I will do my best." 

I kiss him, not wanting to part. 

"Go, now!" he ushers me away, laughing.

One last parting kiss, and I am running towards my room. I trip on the stairs, catching myself with both my hands, and when I finally reach my room, I drop upon my bed, one arm covering my face, unable to control my unfading smile. 

***

I am lying in bed, hours later, unable to find sleep. Jack is lying by my side, and I am grateful for the bit of company because it is not warm at all, especially for January. I imagine John in my bed, instead of Jack. It could have happened tonight if Mother had not intervened. I felt John's barrier slowly crumble, most likely from the alcohol he consumed earlier in the evening, and from my little display in the game room. Maybe this is for the better, for I am sure he would feel incredibly guilty of his behaviour, should he fall in my bed before putting a ring on my finger. Mother would not be happy at all. 

I turn and turn in bed, chasing sleep whilst knowing it will not be caught that easily.

At some point in the night, a harsh knocking sound resonates against my window. I lift my head from my pillow, wondering if a bird has hit the window. 

I am about to shift to a more comfortable position in bed when a second _bang_ makes the whole window frame shake. I stand up, and go to the window to investigate. I push the glass open, and a third rock nearly takes half of my face with it. 

"What—" 

"Sherlock!"

"John?"

I lean over the window, trying to distinguish the source of the voice through the darkness.

" _Sherlock_!" John shouts a second time, loudly enough for Sherrinford's sleeping inhabitants to hear. 

I finally see him, a small spot in the bushes, just under my window. He is not wearing a coat, even in the cold January night, and the state of his boots tells me that he has walked — ran — all the way from Stamford's. 

"Not so loud, my parents are sleeping," I say as quietly as possible for him to hear me. "What on Earth are you doing here at this hour?" 

"I came to see you, of course," he shouts, before I hush him again.

His hands try to grab at the vine growing over the wall, and before disaster happens, I understand what John is trying to achieve and I undo the knot of the rope I have secured at my own window, the one who helps me get away in the night and climb back up as I wish.

He smiles, and inexplicably waves at me again before he grabs the thick ropes and ascends towards the second floor on which my room is situated. 

When he arrives to my height, instead of stepping inside, he grabs the outside railing of the window, and kisses me deeply. "You cunning man," he giggles, and I cannot help but frown at him.

"You are… inebriated," I deduce, from the taste of his mouth and the way he is acting.

He kisses me once more, his hand on my arm. "Stamford's whiskey is a dangerous thing." 

I make a face, remembering the taste of that awful drink last time I had visited him. No wonder John is not in a state to think properly, after the whiskey and all the wine he drank earlier in the evening. 

He gently rubs his hand over my arm, before I realise that he is touching my nightgown. "I am undressed!" I protest, but he grabs my wrist before I can move away from him. 

"Don't. I promise not to look," he adds with a grin. As if I am supposed to believe him.

"Unless you want to come in," I say in a whisper, biting the inside of my cheek. Surely John is not about to refuse. We had nearly proceeded earlier this evening, and now he is even more drunk than he was. 

"Oh, really?" he asks, his eyebrows raised high. 

"Yes." 

He chuckles, leaning in but not quite kissing me. "Are you trying to take advantage of a drunken man?" 

"No, not— what are you here for, then, if not for that?" 

"I told you. I wanted to see you. And," he adds, as if in an afterthought, "I wanted to give you this." 

I frown. "But you have already gifted me the Stradivarius." 

"Well, I could not quite give you this in front of everyone, could I?" 

Curious, I follow his movements as he puts his hand in his pocket, and retrieves a golden watch. "For you." 

He hands it to me, and I instantly notice it is the watch he had on himself the first time we met, the watch that helped me deduce so many things about him. I turn it in my hand, and notice the new inscription engraved at the back of the gold. _SH & JW. Soon_.

I look down. This was his most valued belonging before he became a rich man, and I cannot begin to understand the sentimental value of this particular watch. And now, he is gifting it to me. "I— thank you."

I kiss his cheek, which makes him smile. "You are pleased, I see. I am glad." 

"How do you know that?"

"How do I know that a compliment, or a gift, has reached your heart? You look down, my love, and you are not even aware you do." 

I gape, which pleases him intensely, to my own embarrassment, as his words hold a truth I did not know about myself. Well, I will have to stop doing that. 

He laughs again, the alcohol clearly making him a happy man. "I do know some things about you, after all." 

"Well, I _am_ pleased. Thank you again. Yet this feels unfair because you have given me Jack, the violin and the watch, and for all the months that I have known you, I have not gifted you anything of value." 

"Oh, that is not quite true, my love, you promising to marry me is surely the greatest gift of all."

My gaze wavers to my feet, before I remember myself and look back up. 

"And," John continues, a smile on his face, "I have to admit that the sight of you in this nightgown is quite welcome as well." 

I flush. "You promised not to look!" But then… "Are you sure you do not wish to come in? You must be cold on this side of the window."

For a sole answer, John's finger traces the soft lines of the watch in the palm of my hand. " _Soon_ ," he says, although I can see that his barriers are beginning to thaw, that alcohol has made his resistance less persistent.

"But it is my _birthday_!" I counter. "You seemed… eager, earlier today." 

He chuckles softly. "Do you know what it did to me, you sitting on my lap in the game room? You, touching my face, my lips, in front of everyone else, when I could not even reciprocate? I thought I was going _mad_. You are a bad, bad man, when you set towards it, Sherlock Holmes. But no, I will not enter your room tonight, my love. You would not want to have a drunk man in your bed, if you know what I mean." 

I nod. What _does_ that mean?

"Although I believe I _can_ tell you what I would do to you in exactly one year from now."

"And what would that be?" 

"Oh," John says, and I do not believe he is aware that his ears are getting red, although that might be from the cold. "After receiving a multitude of gifts, I will gently close the door behind us, telling everyone around that I need to take special care of my _husband_ on his birthday night."

"What then?" I breathe out. 

"Then, I shall kiss you." 

I reach out for him, but he ducks his head away. "Oh, I shall kiss you, but everywhere except those lovely lips of yours. I will kiss your forehead," he says, and he does just so, following his words with direct action, "and your eyebrows, your nose, your cheeks, your jaw, your neck…" 

He stops there, his lips warm on that spot that is usually covered by my cravat. I try not to squirm too much under his show of affection, but I cannot help from grabbing his arms with my own hands and he trails his mouth over my body.

"I will then divest you of your clothes, one by one, drawing everything out so that I can kiss every new portion of pale skin my eyes uncover, until…" 

"Until?"

"Until there is no more fabric covering your body. Then, I shall slowly go down on my knees in front of you, and—" 

" _And_?" 

He does not say anything but smile. 

"And then what?" I press him, slightly out of breath, but John is already taking his hands off me, gathering the rope in his hands. "John! Tell me!" 

"Good night, my love, and happy birthday, once more."

I cannot restrain him from jumping from the window railing and down the rope, probably less elegantly than it would have been if he were not under alcohol's influence, but I cannot feel anything for him other than frustration. 

"Watson!" I shout as loudly as I can without raising suspicion in the dead of the night. "What happens next?!" 

But he is already running away, and his sole answer is a burst of laughter. 

Huffing, I close the window and slump back over my bed, left behind by a sleepy Jack who most likely found refuge on the bathroom's carpet. I sigh to myself, before I notice that the white cotton of my nightgown is raised in the most obvious way.

Has John noticed that before leaving? It might be as well, for the idiot has played me like a fool, I reflect fondly, and that reaction was most certainly his intention.

I sigh again as I slip my hand under my nightgown. I close my eyes, and this time, take my pleasure without shame as I imagine John kneeling in front of me, his piercing eyes following the twist and pull of my wrist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the courting games depicted here exist in reality. Believe it or not, hot cockles is actually a thing, and I made it a lot softer than the original version... which consists of burying your head between the seated person's legs, and another person comes behind you to kick you in the ass, which mashes your face against the seated person's genitals, and you have to guess who is the person kicking you. Ahh, the Regency, what a romantic and elegant era!!  
> Forfeits are also a thing, and they come in the form or kisses or other "favors". The only bit I invented here is Margaret's little speech at the beginning of the game. :)
> 
> I apologize for the delay of this chapter, and I also apologize in advance - this week is my exam's week, and on Sunday I'm going to London for the whole week!! :D I won't have the time to update the week during my trip, although I will try hard to update this week again, I'm not sure I will be able to because of exams.  
> Thank you for your patience! Know that your comments are incredibly lovely and motivating, and that I will take the time to answer them all when I will have a moment to do so! <3333


	14. Chapter 14

As spring arrives to Sherrinford, I am once more separated from my John by the _mighty dragon_ that is Mother and her incessant need for a chaperone guarding our encounters, especially since our last mishap during my birthday. Lady Margaret has less and less time to come at the hall and keep an eye on us as Lord Harrington has finally asked for her hand in marriage. The demand was obviously accepted, and they are to be married at the beginning of the summer, the waiting time as a result of a complication I could not care less to understand.

John, on his own side, has not given up on his practice even after receiving Mary's inheritance, and I do believe that his work makes our time apart go faster for him than it does for me. Unfortunately, there is a dire lack of interesting cases, and so I spend most of my days in my own laboratory, walking Jack outside and collecting samples, or playing on my Stradivarius. 

His birthday, in April, comes and goes, and I gift him a few hand-tailored suits, since he has had trouble buying some of his own. I believe his taste to be good, but unfortunately, having never bought clothes of that kind, I know he was a bit dismayed by the whole undertaking. My choices remained very simple but elegant, with only one suit with breeches and an embroidered waistcoat, for special occasions. I felt the desire to gift him a horse as well, but I knew that our plans to live in London would not permit him to take care of the animal, and he would be harrowed at leaving it behind at Sherrinford. The suit felt less-than-personal, and so I added to the pile of gifts a few rare books about medicine, and a new stethoscope, for I know that his was falling apart. He was generally very pleased by his gifts, although he thought I gave too much. Surely no one can achieve that when one has received a dog and one of the best violins in the world, but John has always been a modest man, prone to give more than to receive. 

My more… personal gift, of course, was refused. Damn. 

Since then, I have not seen him, and certainly not in private. I count the days until the end of the summer, until I am able to kiss him in front of everyone and call him mine.

Still, summer is too far away for me to accept not seeing John so often. This is how I come upon quite the clever plan.

I start by writing out to Lady Margaret, who happily complies. We set the date, and I then take the pen to write to Lord Harrington, inviting him over at Sherrinford for a few days at the beginning of May.

Mother and Father, of course, are delighted when I tell them I shall receive a visitor that is not Dr Watson. I can feel that Father is under the impression I have made a new friend, when Mother secretly thinks there might be the slightest chance I should choose Harrington over Watson. They are wrong on both accounts. 

Harrington arrives just after morning tea, and suggests that we should take a walk, only him and me, for we have private matters to discuss.

Once we are outside, Jack running by my side, the chatter that was going on in the hall subsides into a strained silence. Not that I usually find silence to be uncomfortable, but it is clear by the clench in Harrington's jaw that he is desperately searching for something to say.

"I am glad to know," he finally lets out, "that you and Dr Watson have found a common ground upon which your marriage will become a reality."

I bite the inside of my cheek, my head high. I could never muster the patience for this kind of talk, even though Harrington is trying to be courteous. _Friendly_ , I would imagine. It does not become me as well as it does him. 

"Dr Watson is a good man, Mr Holmes. Even though the vast majority of nobility might oppose such a choice for a spouse, I have to admit that I am rather glad of—"

"You do not need to fill the silence with needless conversation, Harrington, let's just keep on walking." 

Harrington closes his mouth, although I note the hint of a smile in his eyes. He is, of course, unaware that my thoughts have taken me back to the dreadful night I had imagined him and John embracing in that river, and of the blooming heat rising in my chest as he praised John so highly.

What for? It is clear that Harrington is sweet on Lady Margaret, and that I myself, and John, are perfectly happy together. I shake my head, these feelings stirring confusion deep in my thoughts. I always thought of myself as a rational being, and jealousy is seldom something that I have experienced before John arrived in my life.

Fortunately, Harrington does not press the issue and refrains from further comments until we reach one bank of the river, deep in the woods. 

A branch cracks somewhere in front of us, and Jack extends his head, sniffing the air. His tail starts wagging, in time with the quickening beats of my heart, and he jumps over the few dead branches to greet the two people coming our way.

"Jack! Sweet pup!" John exclaims, as he stops to ruffle the dog's red hair.

I stride over to him and Lady Margaret, eyeing Jack as he receives the attention I want for myself. Dear Lord — am I jealous of a _dog_ , now?

"Holmes," John finally greets me, stepping over a bumbling Jack, and kisses me on the cheek, whilst Harrington sweeps Lady Margaret off her feet with the warmest hug I have ever witnessed.

I smile, and murmur a soft, " _John_ ," before pressing a quick kiss to his lips. Nothing that the others would notice, too taken by their own emotions. 

"So," Harrington says. "At what hour should we head back?"

I take the golden watch from my pocket, the one that John had given to me, to check the time. Not that I particularly needed to, because I can deduce it from the position of the sun in the sky, but I secretly revel in John's reaction every time he sees me make use of this gift. I would do anything in the world to make his eyes spark this way. 

"If we want to be in time for dinner and have the time to change before that, I believe it would be a good idea to meet here at four." 

"Very well," Harrington agrees. "Come on, darling," he whispers to Lady Margaret, who blushes under the use of her sweet name in front of John and I. 

At the same time, John's hand slips in mine, and the second the other couple is out of sight, he seizes me by the waist and kisses me on the mouth. My knees go weak but his hold on me is strong and keeps me standing, as my finger grasp the side of his muscled arms.

I let him toy with me, for he has surely earned that after spending so much time apart from me. My thoughts are halted by his ministrations, as he nips on my lower lip with his teeth, as he teases me with his tongue before pulling back when my breathing gets too heavy. We stand there for an impossible amount of time, indulging in less-than-chaste passion, but never crossing the line that has been imposed between us since the very start. 

He sighs and presses his forehead to mine, a quiet laughter in his eyes, the kind that means that my cheeks are flushed red without me being aware of it. I groan and press my face to his neck, trying to compose myself. When I look down, I huff a laugh as I notice Jack somehow standing between both pairs of legs, staring up, slightly desperate to get some sort of attention from either of us.

John presses his cheek to my head, and kisses my forehead. "I have missed you," he whispers, his hands caressing my back.

I do not wish to express out loud needless sentimentality, and so I just hold John tighter against me. The past few months have been defined by the distance between us. We have discussed many things through correspondence, but we had not been able to meet without a chaperone in the same room since the evening of my birthday. 

"Shall we make use of the barn?" John asks. "Or do you wish to stand here all afternoon." 

I shift away from him and roll my eyes. Without a word, I tug at his sleeve, and lead him towards our usual hideout. 

***

It is warm for early May, the sun shining through the holes in the barn, drying the fresh hay as it collects on the ground in golden mounds. As always, I throw my coat on top of it, before John and I take place, this time lying on our sides, facing each other, whilst Jack is climbing the wall of hay at the back of the barn, happy to be back in such a memorable place from his pup days.

We share what has happened of importance in the last few months, mostly interesting patients for John, and what my experiments have become since we last met, our hands idle over each others’ bodies, stopping over buttons and hems here and there. When we finally breach the subject of London, the deep blue of John's eyes light up. 

"I believe I have found it," he says. 

My heart skips a beat. "Really?" 

"Yes." He smiles, his hand stopping near my ear, where he sweeps a curl away. "I am sure you will love it." 

I take his wandering hand into my own, and kiss his palm. I am aware that I may not be the best to express these words out loud, but I dearly hope that my action makes up for it. Evidently, since John is still here with me. "Tell me everything about it."

"There is a small hallway, but our rooms are situated on the second floor, for the landlady lives downstairs with a maid. The rooms are not enormous — not like Sherrinford — but comfortable enough. The living room has enough space for a few armchairs, a library, and two writing desks and a dining table. The windows are quite big and give to the street. The wallpaper is a bit unfortunate, but I want to wait for you to see it before we decide what to do with it, for I must admit that colours and shapes are not quite my specialities. The master bedroom is much smaller, but still enough for two people and very elegant, and I have to say that the bed is even bigger than what you have in your rooms here. There is an impressive adjoining bathroom, for it has a bath big enough to hold the both of us. And finally, a second room upstairs, which we can turn into a guest bedroom, but I rather thought you would prefer for it to be a place where you can establish your laboratory."

I smile, and lean in to kiss him. I have no notion of what force on Earth — whether it was chance or something else — that has put this incredible man upon my path, one that understands so much about me, but I am certainly glad for it.

"Is there enough room for Jack as well?" I ask, concerned.

"There is. He will be able to walk from room to room and sleep in front of one of the fireplaces at night." John stops, the expression on his face unreadable. "This might be… underwhelming for you, my love. You are used to such big rooms, and acres and acres of land to your disposition. I am afraid there is no such thing in London, unless you want to be on the edge of the city… Then I guess we can reconsider the flat and find a manor to your liking."

I shake my head, my hand fisting itself into the puffy collar of John's shirt. "No, no, I do not wish for another empty house, John. There are only three of us, with Jack, we do not need a manor for ourselves. This flat sounds quite adequate, even more if it is situated in the centre of the city."

I do not wish to say that I do not want to spook John into living in anything bigger than a flat. I know he is barely comfortable with staying at Sherrinford over the night, and that his newly acquired richness does not mean he would be overjoyed lording over land and castle. No, a flat is perfect for the both of us, and suits our work. I must admit that I am curious about living in such close quarters, but then it can only mean I will always be in close proximity to my husband. And be in London. Two of the things I desire the most, to happen in a few months. 

"It will be an entirely new adventure. What is the address?"

"It is on Baker Street," John says. "221b Baker Street."

I close my mind, visualising exactly where the street is, on the extensive maps I keep in my Mind Palace. 

"I trust you, then, if you wish to proceed with the purchase," _for I will not be able to see London before we are wed_ , I want to say, but refrain from. "How many stairs are there?"

John frowns, his hands stilling. "Stairs? I do not know exactly. Why this particular detail?" 

"Oh, John," I sigh. "You see but no do not observe. Of course it is of highest importance! Knowing how many stairs there are, prevents us from falling down should we be drunk or… or anything else, simply by counting in our heads. And if there are more than thirty, surely this would be a hardship to climb with bags, or when we are old and tired. Surely you must have noticed if there is a banister or—" 

Before I can finish my sentence, John rolls over me, quite literally smothering me with his whole body, before pressing quick laughing kisses to my mouth. "Of— course— there— is— a— banister— you— darling— fool!" 

I scowl, trying to free myself from his hold on me before it tickles too much and I lose face. "I just wanted to make sure you actually saw something else besides the horrible wallpaper!"

He laughs, before straightening himself into a sitting position, his back against a ball of hay. "Come here, my love, let's sit together."

Sitting together always means the same thing, and so I position myself with my back to John's chest, lying between his legs. He wraps his hands around my middle, and kisses the side of my head. 

"I love you an impossible amount," he whispers, which makes me smile.

We stay like this for a few minutes, the companionable silence helping me contemplate the reality of our soon-to-be engagement and marriage. If John may be wary about gaining a title as much as he is uncomfortable being this rich, I too have to adjust to certain… expectations which will be asked of me. I have to say that as much as I desire John, body and mind, I find myself carefully considering the matter of our wedding night, for I wish it to go seamlessly just as much as I do not wish to lose too much of my intelligence during my first, and last, sexual congress. Unfortunately, as I have reflected upon before, my experience on the matter is rather limited. Unlike John, of course, who must have lied with a few people already. 

"John," I say. "How many women have you been with?" 

He coughs, surprised, his chest bouncing under my back. "Are you… sure you want to know?" 

I frown. "I apologise. Was that a sensitive question to ask?" 

"No… not as such," he lets out. "It is just that…" 

John does not seem to finish his thought, and so I decide to speak instead. "Should I not know this about the man I will marry?" 

He shifts under me, his arms holding me tight. "Of course, of course. I… It was a few. I did not keep count." 

"How many is a few?" 

John groans, the back of his head hitting the wall of the barn in a soft _thud_. "A few is… Heavens, dear fellow…" 

"What?" I cry out, amused. "Fifty? Forty?" 

"Heavens, no!" He laughs, kissing the side of my head. "Maybe a bit more than twenty? It's… I could never be with someone for very long, as most soldiers, for I was stationed in Egypt and India, and had to travel as well inside those countries. I hope you do not think less of me for it." 

I frown. Surely twenty women is not that bad. "Why should I think less of you? It only means that you have experience where I do not. What about men?" I ask, for I am sure he has been with some as well.

Just when John was about to relax, he tenses up again when I raise the question. "A… a lot less. Three, to be exact. You will be my fourth." 

I hum. "At least one of us will know how to go about on our wedding night."

"Does it…" he starts. "Does the prospect of it make you feel uneasy, my love?" 

"Not at all."

He kisses the top of my head, as I link our fingers together over my chest. On the other side of the barn, Jack has fallen asleep on a ball of hay, tired from running around chasing mice. No, I am not afraid of whatever our wedding night reserves, yet I do not feel like I know everything I need to know. I would have never considered asking John about it, since my lack of experience might make me undesirable in his eyes, but he knows after all that he is the first man I ever kissed, and that I am still a virgin. In any other case, I would have asked someone else, except that John is my closest friend and confidant, and has acquired his own, on hand, experience about the matter.

I shift against him, still working the words in my thoughts before my tongue slips. "I have a question." 

John hums. 

"Promise not to laugh if I am wrong." 

"What is it?" John asks.

"Promise first," I demand.

I can feel his smile growing behind me. Not facing him helps. "I promise." 

"Is it true…" I start, before changing my mind. "When I was in school, the boys were always talking about… sexual congress. It was often misgiving and in crude terms, but one of their statements made me wonder…" 

"Yes?" 

Now or never. "Is it true… that there is a way for… for two men to lie together like a man and a woman would?" 

"It is," John says, serious.

I am grateful that I am not facing him, for he cannot see the surprise on my face. This means… "Is it true — do not laugh — is it true that the way to… achieve that is through one man's… bottom?" 

This time, John explodes in a hearty laugh. I scowl, and hit his belly with my elbow. "John!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he says, trying to compose himself back again. He clears his throat, and it takes him another moment to calm down enough to answer me. "Yes, that is true as well." 

I gape. "But… how?! I… Upon hearing the boys talking about it, I tried, I— oh," I stop, wondering if I should reveal this much about me. "I was washing one day and I try to push a finger in and it hurt quite a bit." 

John starts chuckling again, before he remembers himself. "That is because you were in water. You see, whilst it is natural for women to produce a substance made to make sexual congress easier, a man's bottom has not quite been made with that purpose in mind. Therefore, to achieve what we want without too much strain, we need to use an oil or grease to ease the way in." 

I hum, still embarrassed about my questions, which John must find very silly. I am probably very red in the face at this point, and do not dare to turn to face him.

"John," I say. "When one refers to a man's virtue in the context of a marriage to another man, does it mean that virginity is lost when the man offers his… bottom to the other?" 

"In the traditional sense, yes," John explains. "But we do not have to do that if you do not want to." 

"No," I say. "We will. You shall be the one to take my virtue, and since we can only do this once…" 

I nearly hear John's thoughts coming to a halt. " _Once_?"

"Well, yes, of course," I say, not knowing that this was a point of contention for John. "Surely if I wish to retain my mental faculties we can only lie together once."

I feel John still under me. Have I said something incorrect? I turn on myself, sitting back on my knees in order to face him. 

"Oh," he breathes out, "my love…" 

"What is it?"

"Do you truly believe that?" 

I frown. "Well, yes. Is it not general knowledge?" 

John takes both of my hands, making me shuffle closer to him. "Who told you that?" 

"A boy at school. He got it from his mother, who is a nurse." A pause. "Why, is it not true?" 

John closes his eyes for a second. "It is not."

"I don't believe you," I say. "She is a nurse, surely she must know about these things, and he would have no reason to lie to me." 

"Sherlock… They say that to young men in order to keep them from giving in to natural needs that are prohibited by religious norms and values." 

I stare at him, unconvinced. 

"You do not believe me, do you?" John sighs. "I am telling you it's not true, love. Whether you are with someone, or by yourself, release is something your body has to go through naturally, and it does not affect mental capacities at all. In fact, refraining from giving in to your bodies needs might lead to… frustration, more than anything else." 

"Frustration?" 

John frowns. "Do you never…?" He waves a hand, as if what he is saying is evident. Good thing that I am the best detective in the world. 

"No…" I say. "Or at least… not before meeting you," I add, looking down. 

Good Lord! I cannot believe I just revealed this piece of information. How humiliating! Yet John only laughs, and closes his arms around me in a tight embrace, as I lean my head on his shoulder.

"There is no shame in that," he says. "As I did mention, it is only natural. And I am flattered, if you must know."

Flattered? Really? That I have, in the past, fondled my flesh whilst thinking of him? Does this mean he has done the same whilst thinking of _me_? 

"There is truly nothing to fear for your intellect," he concludes.

"Are you sure?" 

"I am a doctor, Sherlock, I can assure you that there is no correlation between how many times a man has reached his pleasure and his intellectual abilities. I, for once, can be the direct proof of that." 

I frown, and slightly push myself back from him, a hand on his chest, to have a better look at his face. "Really?"

I think about it for a moment. If John has lied with at least twenty women, and three men, not counting the times he has taken solitary pleasure, he must have started in life ten times more clever than I ever was, to still be able to reason and speak after all these releases. He must be telling the truth then, or maybe sexual congress only demands a small part of energy reserved to the intellect, a difference that can only be seen on the long term. Maybe it will have more of an impact on myself, since my cleverness is above average.

"Are you sure you did not start in life ten times more clever than myself?" I say with a smile. 

John barks out a laugh, and I join him, laughing as he embraces me tightly in his arms. I am still slightly unconvinced, but I believe I will see how it plays out on our wedding night, and try to satisfy my husband's appetite the best I can.

Our laughter gives in to short breaths and sighs. He leans in to kiss me, deeply, and I kiss him back, my hands on the side of his head. I cannot wait for us to be together, finally, and I know that he does as well.

"Tell me," he says. "When the time comes, how will it all play out?" 

I clear my throat, understanding what he is asking of me. John has never been to a noble wedding, nor does know the rules of proposing, courting, or whatever needs to happen during the wedding night, everything complicated by the fact that we are both men, and that one has the money, and the other, the title. 

"Since I have the title," I say, "I will have to be the one to ask you to marry me, so you can officially take my name and title. There will be a… well, a courting period after that, whilst preparing the wedding."

"A courting period?" 

"Yes. We will have to appear together in public, and of course, play the part of the new couple. Weddings usually take place a few weeks after the engagement, but knowing Mother, she will want to make it quite a big event, so I am afraid we might wait a bit more in our case. I suspect you will not invite a hundred more of your friends to it?" 

John chuckles. "Oh, no, maybe just Stamford," he says, and I know that Mary's ghost is hanging in the air between us. "I have a few other friends in London, but I do not believe they will be able to get a free day from work, nor transportation to Sherrinford." 

"We can always pay for their day's work, and their transportation," I point out, but John shakes his head. 

This is clearly not about money. Maybe John does not want the lower classes to mingle with the nobles, although I trust his friends to behave correctly. But then, maybe he is right not to make that barrier crumble. I know Mother would not be pleased.

"Do not worry," John says, seeing the look on my face. "You being there is the single most important thing to me." 

I gape. "I dare hope so! I am one of the _husbands_!" We both laugh, waking Jack, who comes to investigate by sniffing John's armpit, who pats him with one hand. "In any case, we will say our vows, and you will officially share my name since I have the title. But since _you_ are the one who owns the money, it will be your duty to dispose of my virtue." 

John is on the brink of a laugh, but only presses his mouth to the side of my head. "Only if you want to," he mumbles.

I roll my eyes. "John, they might check." 

He jerks back from me, holding me by the arms, as if to see me better. "They might check—" 

"If I am no longer a virgin, yes," I say. Is this not evident? "The marriage has no value until it is consummated, and they can call upon a doctor to make sure of that."

I see his panicked thoughts behind the blue of his eyes. "A doctor?! But I _am_ a doctor, surely I will know if—" 

"You are, but you are also suggesting that we do not consummate. Do you not see?" 

He blinks, his surprise giving into anger. "I will not stand for this, Sherlock. Surely you do not need to be… checked upon, surely our word is enough, and it is none of—" 

I shut him up with a kiss, before he can work himself to a proper fit of rage. When our lips part, I press my forehead to his, and sigh. "I do not mind, John," I say. "It is something we do, and something I was made aware of a long time ago. It will be my pleasure to share your bed on our wedding night, and whatever comes in the morning will be quick and painless, a low price to pay for the chance of being with you at last." 

He closes his eyes. I can see that the idea of me being bare and checked by a third party pains him. Although my words are meant to be reassuring, I am not at all enchanted by the humiliating prospect of a stranger (or most likely, Dr Kent, which is worse) coming near my most private parts. They should be for my husband, and my husband only. But if it takes that for me and John to be forever together after it, then I will do whatever is necessary.

"I want the world to know about us," I whisper to John. "I want the world to know that we are together, and will be together, always." 

John sighs. "I do too, but there are times when the world should mind its goddamn business." 

***

I sit by the window, book in hand, entirely incapable of reading a single word in front of me. Tom has said no more than a thousand times that the staff will let me know when he arrives, except that I do not trust the staff, and it is not like I have anything else to do on the most important day of my life. On the most important day of my life _yet_.

Even the maid — Thomas's sweetheart, Abigail — who is sweeping everything around me seems febrile.

Mother comes in the room, as I am playing with the corner of a page, eyes set on the single road leading from the woods to Sherrinford. I barely hear her as she talks to me, berating me for missing breakfast or something of the kind.

One year! One year! One year! To this day, one year! To this hour, to this minute, nearly… one year!

I feel like I might be sick. 

Oh, how one does this?! How can one be so irreparably full of love that he feels sick to his heart and stomach on the very eve of forever?!

Mother is talking about the weather (it rained all morning but now the cloudy sky bears traces of sunshine) when I hear the horses coming.

I jump on my feet, making both Mother and the maid gasp, before I grasp my coat and swing it on one arm, already running out of the room, top hat entirely forgotten. Behind me, I can hear Mother muttering something about _young love_.

Mr Willis barely has the time to open the main door before I jump through it, my feet instantly slipping on the mud and gravel. I catch myself at the last second, and continue my running towards the carriage that has stopped at the other end of the road.

"Holmes!" John shouts, as he steps off the carriage, his expression both surprised and amused.

I finish shoving my second arm in the sleeve of my coat, before I drop one of my knees in the grass and slip a good few centimetres forward, covering my white breeches with mud.

John laughs, stepping up to me, and for a moment, I can see he wants to reach my cheek with the tip of his fingers. One look at Sherrinford in front of him, and he changes ideas.

"I'm afraid you've ruined your breeches, Holmes," he says with a smile. "The maids will not be happy about that." 

"I am Sherlock Holmes," I say, "and I do as I please." 

That makes him laugh, and his own laugh makes me smile. For the first time since my birthday, he is not wearing black. The gray of his suit complements the blue of his eyes, and the gold of his hair is shining under the sunlight. 

I clear my throat. "Watson," I say, waving a hand, before scratching the back of my head. Should one say something particularly significant in this moment?

"Oh, of course," he breathes out, and extends his hand, which I seize with more force than may be necessary.

I clear my throat once more. "John Hamish Watson, it would be the greatest honour of my life, should you accept my hand in marriage." 

When I meet his eye, he is beaming at me. "Of course I will." 

The next thing I know is that I am swept off my feet as my lips land on his, his arms wrapped around my body, not caring at all for the mud that transfers to his clothes. I can barely hear the distant cheering of the staff gathered in Sherrinford's door, watching us promise each other eternity and more.

For a brief second, everything in the world feels perfectly aligned. The thought makes no sense at all, yet I find that I do not particularly care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, biggest thanks to my wonderful beta, Arcwin. <333 And thank you for your comprehension regarding the posting delays. London was wonderful and it inspired me to start working on my next fic project.  
> Hopefully, you should have the next update this Friday or sometime this week-end. Thank you for your support, I'm still behind on comments but I'll answer them when I'll get a moment. <333


	15. Chapter 15

My hands tremble slightly as I finish retying my silken cravat for the third time. Thomas has just sprung out of my room in frantic search for my top hat, leaving me alone for the first time since I woke this morning. 

Swallowing, I turn towards the mirror, my eyes traveling up and down my silhouette, judging the state of my clothes I had chosen last month. Everything according to tradition, of course: silk cravat, black coat, linen coat, skin tight breeches, black stockings and pumps (never boots!). My favorite piece is most certainly the waistcoat, finely embroidered in shades of blue and gold. Thomas had helped me earlier with a few laces as well, for I shall certainly look my best on this day. Against my words, for I rather thought it would be pleasant should we match, John has chosen another outfit and has not disclosed the secret yet. I suppose that I will see the moment I get inside the church. 

I close my eyes, a smile on my face, as I imagine John waiting for me, before the clergyman. We have fought so long, and so hard, for this, to seal the continuous lines of our lives together in a circle that knows no beginning, no end. 

Oh— but enough poetry, for that is entirely John's predilection, and not my own. 

I sit down on the nearest chair, apprehensively eyeing the whiskey that stands on my desk. Surely, a bit of liquor would help, but it is not like I can show up drunk to my own wedding. 

Jack shows up to by side, with the intention of rubbing his red fur across my breeches, but I hold him off with one hand. "No, Jack. Sit," I instruct, and he does lay down at my feet, both anxious about my own misery and me denying giving him attention. Poor sod, but I do not wish to be covered in fur as I walk down the aisle.

I need to make the time pass, since Thomas is clearly still in his search of my hat. Leaving the whiskey behind, I recline on my seat instead and close my eyes once more, to think about the last few weeks. 

Our engagement, as I had predicted, quickly became the favorite topic of discussion amongst nobility. Those who had noticed our inclination for one another during my birthday would smirk and tell the others that they saw it coming, but it was nonetheless the news of the century that a terribly rich doctor of low birth asked no one else than the unattainable Sherlock Holmes for his hand in marriage. It made, to my absolute delight, a few mouths shut up.

For the first time in my life, I welcomed being the subject of rumors, and also, most of the time, of envy. The hypocrisy of the nobility knows no end — last year, they were all sneering down upon John, and now, they only wish they were in my place, an arm thrown around his own. No. They do not get this. I, and I alone, saw the value of the man under the etiquette that was attributed to him. I would have married him homeless, penniless, and disabled, and it would not have changed my sentiments at all. If we get this happy ending, it is only because we deserve it. 

The day after our engagement, John sent the most enormous bouquet of flowers to Sherrinford, along with a letter that could make the most insensible, cold-minded people (like myself) blush hard. We spent the following day walking arm-and-arm, finally able to show an affection which was forbidden to us before. Even when John went back to London, I would receive news from him nearly every three days, along with small gifts and lines of poetry that made me dream at night. I reciprocated the best that I could, always afraid that my words and my offerings were not enough to translate the depth of my love and desire for the man that would soon become my husband. He never confirmed my fears, and in time, they faded away as the fateful date came closer and closer. 

Our first attendance as an engaged couple was, irony upon irony, at Harrington's and Lady Margaret's wedding, three weeks before our own. We did not attend the ceremony, but were invited to the wedding breakfast. We stayed there until nighttime when the music started, and danced a total of three times — one dance more than what rules dictate just to show that they do not apply to us anymore, as an officially engaged couple. In any case, Harrington and Lady Margaret were quite glowing with joy — the latter with something _more_ than joy as well, but I refrained from commenting on it for it would disrupt the wedding quite a bit. Obviously, John was told by the end of the night. They will probably wait a few more weeks before making any kind of announcement. Although now it is quite clear what the other couple was up to, during our common little escapades in the woods, this summer. To say that Mother was afraid about _John_ and I.

My favorite moments since our engagement, though, were the ones when we could escape whomever was chaperoning us. We would hide in corners for the few minutes we had until discovery, and John would press hot, urgent kisses to my lips.

"Sir!" Thomas shouts while barging into my room, waking me from my _rêverie_ and making Jack's head fly up. "I found your hat!"

"Very good, Thomas," I thank him as I don the top hat upon my head.

I check myself in the mirror again and arrange a curl or two. "Is everything in order, Tom?" I turn on myself, watching my side in the mirror, how my back curves elegantly as I palm the rather constricting fabric that lies under my shirt. It is uncomfortable, but worth it. Today, more than any other day.

"Of course, sir," Thomas confirms, slightly out of breath. "Now if you please, Mr Holmes, they are waiting for you downstairs." 

"Yes, all right. Will you take Jack outside before we come back?" 

"Of course, Mr Holmes. And he may stay in my room tonight if you wish, sir." 

I frown. "What for?" 

Tom's eyebrows shoot up. "For… privacy, sir." 

"Ah, yes. Of course. That is most certainly… kind of you to offer."

"Now, Mr Holmes," Tom pleads, "they are waiting for you downstairs, and if you do not leave at once, you will be late!" 

I roll my eyes. Certainly, one cannot be late at his own wedding. 

***

One can definitely be late at his own wedding. 

There is a problem with a wheel — or a horse, I do not even know — and both Father and I are currently waiting on the side of the road for the next carriage sent from Sherrinford… except that this entire endeavor is taking too long and that _my future husband_ is most certainly waiting in anguish for _his_ future husband to arrive at _their_ wedding.

It is at that exact moment, when I am standing at the side of the road, cursing the skies and one bad wheel, that I see it coming our way. 

I jump on the road, waving my hat high in one hand. "Sir! Kind sir, please!" 

Two trotting horses come to a halt before they nearly run over me, and the old man on the carriage raises his hat from his eyes. We stare at each other for a few seconds, the both of us surprised. 

The old man's pipe nearly falls from his mouth. He is wearing a hat and has long gray hair that looks like a wig. Like a wig I once wore on my way to the same village, unknowingly going to save a wedding ceremony from never taking place.

I clear my throat. "Sir, please, I am Mr Holmes, and I am… well, quite late for my wedding. Would you be so kind as to bring Father and I to the next village, just over there?" 

The man's eyes widen, comically, before he nods and waves a hand towards the back of his cart. "Ya can sit on a hay stack if ya wish so, sir."

I take a look at Father, who does not seem particularly enchanted by the prospect of arriving at a wedding with his clothes covered with hay. 

"We will, thank you so much," I say, and I climb on the back of the carriage, holding out a hand for Father to follow me. "As fast as you can?" I ask the old man. "If you please?" 

"Hang in there, sirs." 

The horses start off in a quick trot, and I hold out a hand to both Father, to prevent him from falling forward, and to the side of the carriage, to steady myself as well. My back rubs uncomfortably at the hay behind me, but I cannot help but laugh as we see the country passing before our eyes, still quiet in the morning, sunshine rippling off the green summer grass, leaving me a foolishly happy man.

***

"For the love of God, Sherlock, where were you?" Mother scowls me, as he picks a few strands of hay off my back. "Do you always need to complicate every single matter? Everyone is already inside, waiting for you!"

"Yes, yes, I did not plan on being late, Mother, we simply—" 

"I do not want to hear it. Enter this church at once!" 

I stop her, before she pushes me in there herself. "Do I look all right?" I say, taking off my top hat to smooth my hair underneath. It is unfortunately humid from my own anxiousness and curled from the wind as we were riding the carriage. 

"Of course, of course," she says, as she replaces a few curls on my head, in a nervous way and not at all thoughtfully. "You look just fine, now, please do make your— Siger!" she shouts at Father, who is engaging in conversation with the hay man. From what I hear, I understand that he is inviting him later to Sherrinford to eat, to thank him for his help today. 

"Here I am," Father finally says, as he joins us in front of the door. "Shall we go?" 

"Yes, yes, we were only waiting for—" 

Her words are cut short as a member of the church staff opens the door to us. 

My throat closes on itself, as I distinguish the silhouette of the man standing at the end of the aisle. The ordeal with the carriage made me entirely forget what is about to happen.

John Watson. Sherlock Holmes. Eternity. For better, for worse. (But really for better, I hope.)

I am barely aware that Mother's arm loops around mine, as I start walking down the aisle in strong strides. The vague silhouette John was outside the church clarifies into the portrait of a most delighted young man, wearing a bright-red military uniform.

Just like the day we met. 

Before I can reach him, my legs stop abruptly, and I cannot take another step forward. 

Is this really it? I am somehow convinced that an atrocity will befall us should I make my way to the altar. Maybe the church's fragile foundations will give up. Maybe some old lover will make themselves known, barging into the church at the last second. Or worse, maybe John will cower, and say that he does not, in fact, want to marry me.

Can it be that easy? Can I just step up to John, take his hands in mine, and assert myself as his husband for the rest of our lives? Can I take this chance?

My reflections are cut short by the single voice capable of reason in this church at this moment: "Sherlock," Mother ushers me, a hand pushing in my back. "Do not make your young man wait any longer. Go to him!" 

As if a spell has lifted, my feet wake from their stupor and I bounce forward at once, not minding Mycroft, Father, Mother, Stamford or even the clergyman as I only have eyes for the man in the red uniform.

My trembling hands are caught by his, and when I lift my gaze, I see the emotion in the deep blue of John's eyes. I know he had himself run with worry upon my absence, and I am terribly sorry for it.

"You kept me waiting," he whispers, as he presses his lips to a chaste kiss upon my brow, which most likely makes everyone around us frown. Neither of us care. 

I shake my head, an impossible grin I cannot fight growing on my face. "But you already know that I am Sherlock Holmes, and I do as I please." 

He barks out a laugh, and I could have sworn he would have kissed me on the mouth should the clergyman had not cleared his throat quite audibly.

Right. The wedding.

"Say your words, then," I tell the clergyman, waving a hand at him.

He rolls his eyes, and John chuckles, but starts nonetheless the ceremony, a soft religious monologue that I find myself in the impossibility to listen to due to John's closeness to me. Oh, I cannot wait to kiss him. Can we get to that part already?

"Sherlock," the clergyman says, and I am brought back to the reality that I have to, at some point, participate in this ceremony. "Will you have this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Will you obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?" 

_Obey_ him?

"I will." 

"John," the clergyman says. "Will you have this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Will you obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?"

John's eyes glisten with unshed tears as he looks me in the eye, and says, "I will." 

"The rings, now," the clergyman says, and someway, somehow, someone puts a ring in my hand.

I repeat after the clergyman the few words that will forever bind me to John, as I slip the ring onto the fourth finger of his left hand. My eyes can barely see (I pass one of my sleeves over them to correct that), and my hands are trembling, but there, the band of gold is secured upon my husband's hand.

John does the same to me, repeating the same words, and puts the other band onto my own finger. It feels strange to have it there, perfectly fitted around my finger, with a certain heaviness that has nothing to do with the weight of the gold. Now, the world will see to whom I belong. 

For the first time, I _belong_. 

"…I have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be joined in matrimony together, and forever." 

John beams at me, and before I can ask if this is the right time to kiss him, the clergyman waves to the document behind us, a quill in his hand. "You and your witnesses may now sign." 

I roll my eyes — will this ceremony know an end? — but bend to sign nonetheless, and hand the quill to John, who then gives it to Mycroft (my best man, not that I had a choice in the matter), and to Stamford (John's).

Before I know it, the doors of the church are open, and John tugs me outside where half the village seems to have gathered with curiosity, along with a few members of Sherrinford's staff, who upon us exiting the church, cover us with grains of rice and flower petals. 

"What is the meaning of this?!" I shout, over the sound of people cheering us.

John only laughs, catches my jaw with one hand, and kisses me for the whole world to witness. 

The cheering redoubles, quickly turned down by Mother presenting us with the first problem of our wedded life. "This is all very nice, but I need to point out that we are still missing one carriage to go back to Sherrinford." 

John and I share a look, and the next thing we know, we are the last to leave the village on the back of the hay cart, laughing too much for our own good, legs dangling over and hands linked together, as people run after us and wave us goodbye one last time.

We do not stop laughing as we travel through the much more deserted fields, sometimes greeting back a farmer or two who wave their hats at the long processions of carriages. 

"I could not wait to kiss you," I finally admit, pressing my lips to John's smile. 

"You have the rest of your life to kiss me whenever you want, husband," he says. 

I look down to the muddy road under our dangling legs. "You are happy," I deduce, "Dr Holmes." 

John laughs, but when he looks up to me, his expression transforms into something softer. "And you are crying, my love."

"I am most certainly not!" 

Oh, I most certainly _am_. 

***

After a rather sumptuous breakfast outside in the sun, we spend the rest of the day dancing, drinking, and eating. A quiet dread settles in the pit of my stomach as I sit beside my John, words on the tip of my tongue, words that I do not know if they would make him smile, or cry.

He is the one to ask, finally, between two bites of food, a frown on his face. "What's the matter, Sherlock? Are you not happy?"

"No, of course I am. It is only that there is something I want to say, but I do not know which words would be best." 

"Tell me," he whispers, pressing his nose to my check. "You can tell me anything." 

I swallow, but nonetheless raise my glass towards him. "For Mary?" I ask, unsure. 

For a moment, his eyes are lost in what seems to be insurmountable sadness, but his expression breaks into a soft smile as he raises his glass, and cheers mine. "For Mary."

We both take a sip, and once we set our glasses down, his free hand finds mine under the table. "Thank you, my love. That was…" He does not finish what he wanted to say. Instead, he looks at me, eyes glistening with joy. "If you are finished, shall we dance?" 

We do so, and even more than three times. From time to time, a couple advances to congratulate us for the wedding. Harrington and Lady Margaret are the first ones to do so, and I have to admit she is rather glowing now that her belly is starting to show. John kisses my cheek as soon as the compliment leaves my lips, and I squeeze his hand back.

A few moments later, we are greeted by another guest, a person whom I have not met before, but recognize instantly, for she shares the kind hazel gaze that her father has as well.

"Lady Howard," I say, stepping up to her, as John tenses up by my side, his hold on my waist suddenly stronger.

She smiles, and I am relieved to see that it is truthful. She is not resentful of what has happened between her father and I. "It is Lady Acton now," she replies. 

"I— well, congratulations," I say, although not without a frown. Her father had said to me last year that she did not wish to marry anytime soon. Clearly, he was wrong on that. 

"Congratulations to the both of you as well," she says, and John nods as a thank you. "I was rather surprised to receive an invitation to this particular wedding, you see…" 

Yes. I was unsure whether or not invite Lord Howard to the celebration, hence why I sent the letter his daughter, thinking that she would be a better judge of the situation than myself. I see that I was not wrong. Just as her father had said, she is young, but incredibly bright.

"My father could not attend, Mr Holmes, and I believe you understand why, although he does send his best wishes to the happy couple."

"Thank you," I say. "I do hope that he is well." I truly mean it. I do know how it feels to be engaged to a man who suddenly goes off and marries someone else. 

"He is." She pauses for a second, hesitating. "You see, there is another reason for my coming here. I do not wish to cause you any distress, but my father did not take very well the news of your engagement to Dr Watson. I could feel in your letter that you were still worried for him, Mr Holmes, but I have brought with me the proof that you do not need be concerned anymore."

She nods to the man behind her — her husband — who steps forward, a small bundle in his arms. I can feel the silent _oh_ that leaves John's lips, as he sees the small, sleeping baby. 

"You see, my father does not wish to remarry anymore. He was in… quite a state after the annulment of your engagement to him, Mr Holmes. He loved you quite a lot, just as he loved Mother. But… I have to say I have never seen him love someone as much as he loves her," she says, taking her daughter in her arms. The baby opens her eyes, brown just like her mother's. She cannot be more than a few months old. Three or four at the most. "I think he has found a new purpose in life, Mr Holmes. He already wants us to have more," she adds with a chuckle directed to her husband, who smiles back. 

"Do you want to hold her?" she asks me.

I shake my head. Surely if I were to take such a small human being in my arms, I would drop it and break it. 

"No, thank you. But… John?" I ask, turning my head towards him.

His eyes are still on the baby, as his body is practically vibrating with want. "I… If it is not too much to ask, my lady." 

"Of course not, here," she says, carefully transferring her daughter in John's arms. 

I watch as he gently cradles the bundle against his chest, holding her with experience I did not know he had. Surely, as a doctor, he came to watch over babies. Deliveries, even. Maybe he learned a few tricks from his time at the orphanage. Older children often have to take care of the younger ones, especially when there is not a lot of staff in the first place.

"You see, Mr Holmes, you do not have to fear for my father's happiness."

I barely hear Lady Acton's words, as my eyes are set on John, looking down at the little girl in his arms, gently swaying from one feet to the other.

I have never thought about having children, for I used to think I would be able to escape marriage in the first place. Does John want any? It is not because he likes babies that he would want one for himself, to take care of every passing day. Clearly, he would be an excellent father, unlike myself. I am not even sure that I want children, but I would follow him in whatever endeavor he chooses. Knowing Mother, having offspring is the next obvious step she intends us to take. Sherrinford has to stay in the family, after all, now that it is saved.

Lady Acton's daughter grows fussy in John's arms, who swiftly offers her back to her mother. We bid each other goodbye, for they have to leave already, the child getting tired of receiving so much attention from strangers. 

I admit to John that I am rather relieved to hear that Lord Howard is doing well, after I had broken his heart. 

"Do you imagine," he replies with a smile, "if you had married him, you would be a grandfather now." 

My jaw hangs open as I gently slap his arm. "Do _not_ say that!" 

"Grandfather Holmes, at twenty-one years of age." 

"Good Lord," I laugh. "It seems that I have married the right man after all," I tease him. 

"You only came to this conclusion _now_?" he cries out, acting hurt. "I will prove to you I am the husband you deserve, and I am going to fetch us some more wine." 

He kisses my hand before he makes his way through the crowd, my eyes on his back. Red does suit him so well, I think, biting my lower lip. 

Then, suddenly: "Mr— Mr— Mr— er, Mr— Holmes!" 

Dear. 

God. 

Above. 

Trying. 

My. 

Patience. 

_On._

_My._

_Wedding._

_Day_! 

"Lord Harris, what a surprise!" I exclaim, turning on my heels to face the man who was once my suitor. Who has invited this man?!

"Mr— Holmes, er… many, many… congratulations, and er— best, of course, best wishes, for— your… well, your wedding."

"Thank you, Lord Harris." 

"Let… me, yes, let me… introduce you, yes, quite that, introduce you, to… well, to my… my wife," he says, beaming, as I notice for the first time the woman standing beside him.

She is tall and severe looking, older than him, most certainly, but when she looks at her husband, it is with love written all over her face. "Lady Dorothy Harris," she introduces herself, and I bow my head. "I would also like to congratulate you on your wedding." 

"Thank you, Lady Harris."

"My darling," she says to her husband, "will you be so kind as to fetch us some wine?"

"Yes, yes— of, of course!" Harris sputters, and leaves the two of us alone. 

Clearly Lady Harris is the one who dominates in this marriage.

"I am not sure if I can congratulate you on your choice of spouse," I tell Lady Harris. "Does he recite you his poetry?" 

"Oh, all the time," she says. "Although I have to say, with a bit of editing on my part, it is not half-as-bad."

I hum. "I pity you nonetheless. I could not have married a man who barely knows how to make use of his tongue." 

"He's terribly rich, you know. And, well, a man can use his tongue in two different fashions, Mr Holmes. While my husband may not excel in one, he does so in the other," she adds with a wink.

I frown. What is the meaning of this?

"In any case, I can see that's he's starting conversation with Lord Barrow. I shall fetch him at once, or he'll entirely forget about the wine. Congratulations again, Mr Holmes."

On that, she leaves to go to her husband, just as John steps by my side, handing me a replenished glass of wine. "What was that about?" he asks.

"Lord Harris and his wife came to congratulate me." 

John chuckles. "Lord Harris? The one who wrote poetry for you?" 

"Yes, that one." 

We share a private smile. It seems like such a long time ago that I faked swooning in front of Harris, just to be brought back to consciousness by John.

"I pity his wife," he says.

I shrug. "My words exactly. Although she did mention that Harris has found a new purpose for his tongue." 

I clap on John's back as he chokes on his wine. The drink is probably too strong for him.

"Whatever that is supposed to mean," I add, reflexively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said everyone would get a happy ending, I did mean everyone. Including Harris. And, hopefully, leaving Howard not too heartbroken and with new goals in life. :)  
> I'll let you all guess what comes next, wink wink. ;) 
> 
> As always, thank you to my wonderful beta, Arcwin, and to all of you. Still behind on comments, but I'll still answer them when I have a minute! <333


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please apologize for the use of euphemisms when it comes to the word "cock", but this is quite unfortunately still Sherlock's POV. So you all have to suffer with me.
> 
> In this chapter: nervous detective, helpful doctor, coming to an understanding about what people can achieve with their tongues.  
> So yep, there was a bit of explicit stuff before but this is truly the chapter where we earn the E rating! :) Enjoy

As night sets in the deep blue sky, John and I finally take leave from our guests. We ascend the stairs to my room, his fingers shyly reaching for my palm, laughing mostly because no one at all had cared about us leaving, and the celebration had only redoubled as the musicians changed to a more lively style of music. 

The moment we step into my room, I seize John in a tight embrace as I seal my lips to his. His hands fly up to my face as the door slams shut behind us. I can barely breathe, John's lips soft but insistent under mine, the kiss full of passion that cannot be tamed this time around.

I push him back until he hits the door, and only then my fingers attack his cravat, pulling at the silk as I am too impatient to find the knot and properly untie it. 

That makes John laugh, and he grasps both my wrists, pressing kisses to my knuckles. "A bit more slowly, my love. We have the whole night." 

I swallow, and look away. Was I too direct? When it comes to John, it seems that I am always out of sorts. 

He seems to notice the expression on my face, and catches my lips into a sweet kiss, as his hands start untying my cravat. Once the skin of my neck is bare, John leans in to kiss me there, something he had done only twice before. I already know this is something I will never tire of.

With a swift movement, he makes my coat drop from my shoulders, and starts to unbutton my waistcoat. I can only stand there, a passive subject to his love.

After a moment, he gently walks me back to the bed, and our lips part as the back of my knees hit the mattress. I sit down and watch as John divests himself of his coat and waistcoat, red puddles on the floor, until we are both in our shirts. 

He steps between my legs, and the bed is high enough so that we are nearly the same height. He presses his lips to my forehead, as his hands travel on my chest, to seize the hem of my shirt, but they stop right before that, halting on the hard material hidden under the linen.

He frowns. "Sherlock, what have you…?” 

"It's for my silhouette," I admit, as he raises my shirt over hay head, exposing the corset going around my middle. "Do you not like it?" 

John licks his lips, and kneels in front of me, between both of my knees. "I do," he says, his blue eyes on me, shining with something I have seen before, "but I do not like the idea of hurting yourself for your silhouette, or for what I might think of it, my love." 

I roll my eyes. "I do it for myself, John. And it doesn't hurt." 

He travels his fingers on the bottom edge of the corset, revealing flashes of reddened skin from where the fabric has bitten in my flesh. Instead of letting him worry, I shuffle forward on the bed, and hook my index finger in the loose collar of his shirt, tugging it forward as to peek into it and see the bare flesh of his chest. I have witnessed it only once before, at the river. 

As if reading my mind, John pulls off his shirt and throws it somewhere behind his back, revealing broad, kissable shoulders, plains of white skin and muscle, a freckle here and there (I will have to memorise every single one of them) and a trail of golden hair disappearing under his breeches. I wet my lips at the sight of it, as my lower anatomy makes itself known in a twitch.

I do hope that I have the same effect on John.

It seems so, for he kisses the side of my clothed knee (what a strange place to kiss someone!), and works my pumps off my feet, one at a time. I look away as he divests me from my silk stockings, revealing my feet, which I find big and not particularly elegant. He has seen them before, of course, the night he soothed my ankle, and even if I wanted to impress him at the time, I was not laid as bare as I am now, as we are about to share congress for the first time.

He must have sensed my hesitation, since when he has unrolled both stockings, he perches his hands on my knees and blesses my lips with a kiss. 

"We don't have to—" 

"We do," I cut him off.

"Stand, then." 

I swallow, and not from fear. Captain Watson had just transpired through his tone of voice, and I find myself obeying him at once. 

"Turn around," he orders again, this time more softly.

I do, offering him my back, and soon enough, feel his doctorly hands tugging at the laces of the corset.

"You like it," I whisper, but he does not answer me. 

It is only when he pushes the corset off me that he leans in and kisses my shoulder, the back of one finger tracing the soft line of my spine. I can feel his middle against my bottom, pressing slightly, but not demanding.

"We could do something else," John finally says.

"Like what?" I sneer as I turn around to face him. "Play cards?" 

John barks out a laugh, before kissing me again. We are chest to chest, skin against skin, and it makes my spine shiver.

"I mean… something that doesn't involve me being… in you." 

I press my forehead against his. "But I want that, John." 

"Really?" 

"Yes." I do. I am entirely safe in his capable hands, and I wish strongly for this marriage to be sealed off properly and for good. "My virtue has been a subject of discussion for too long, by now. I wish for you to take it." 

"All right," he says, his eyes glistening. "Wait for me on the bed."

I nod, and walk around the bed, undoing the lace at my breeches. John is on the other side of the room, searching for something, his back on me. I know, instinctively, that he is doing so to leave me the freedom of undressing without him looking directly, and I thank him for it. What if he does not like what I look like?

I slip under the covers and turn on my side, to face him. When he looks back at me, a small bottle between his hands, his gaze softens and his jaw drops open as if he wants to say something, before he closes his mouth again.

He smiles from the corner of his lips and sets the bottle on the nightstand on his side of the bed. I want to ask if I did something wrong but he cuts my thoughts short by unlacing the top of his breeches and pushing them down in a single movement, the fabric catching against the most private part of him before it comes free, slapping against his belly.

Oh.

It is big. 

More than my own. More than I estimated, in the few short times I allowed myself to think about it. 

It is big and it goes upwards in a straight line, very, very pink at the top, and it disappears too soon as John joins me on the bed, careful not to uncover me as he slips under the sheets. It has burned my eyes forever, yet I want to see it again. Is it wrong to think such a vulgar thing as pretty? No, it must not be. No part of John has ever been, or ever will be, vulgar.

Without a word, he scoots up to me and presses his lips to mine, the only point of contact between our bodies. 

Then, his hand travels from my shoulder, down my arm, to my waist, my hip. I shiver. 

"Are you nervous?" he breathes out. 

"No." 

He smiles, and kisses me again, his hand gently tugging until our bodies press one against the other. I can feel the hardness of him — unclothed for the first time — against my belly, and it makes me twitch and squirm: my hips act on their own as I try to rub against his thigh, breathless, before I remember myself and still my body.

He groans, his hands shamelessly seizing my bottom and bringing us closer together, as if that were possible. If I wasn't half-interested a minute ago, when I reached for the bed, I am now so stiff that it hurts. 

John presses my hip down to the bed, and moves as so he covers me with his entire body, his mouth still pursuing mine, his teeth nibbling at my lower lip before he transfers his attention to my neck. His lips are soft and moist beneath my jaw, and when his teeth gently catch my ear, I cannot help but gasp. 

He chuckles, and sits up on my lap, leaning as so the sheets do not uncover our loving. 

"Are you—" he starts, and a second later his hand is there, around me—

"Oh!" 

He smiles, but I cannot help but notice that he has dripped on me, just a little, upon his discovery. He tugs at me once, twice, and I throw my head back on the pillow. How can it be that manual stimulation is fastidious when I do it myself, but that he has the power to bring me so close to my pleasure with a single touch?

"You are," he chuckles, content with my body and how it reacts to him. 

Too soon, he lets go of me — I groan — and reaches for the bottle on the nightstand. Quite right. We have to do this the proper way after all. 

He does something with the bottle — I do not know quite what it is, for my eyes are on his torso, as I explore as much as I can see that is not covered by the sheets and their shadow. 

John rolls on the side, freeing my body of his weight. "Are you still sure?" 

I roll my eyes, which makes him smile. "Stop asking already," I say, after which I grab his chin to place a kiss upon his lips.

"Spread your legs, my love," he mumbles into my mouth.

I must have blushed furiously, for he does not comment but press his lips to my jaw, my neck, as he kneels — still covered — between the shameful position my legs are in. His hand gently grabs my knee, and lifts my leg in order to position it behind him, at an angle. This permits him to scoot closer to me, and I feel it pressing against the tight skin of my… bottom. 

John kisses me once more before lifting his head. Even in the half-darkness of the room, I can see how his pupils are dilated, dark circles in the sea of deep blue. 

"May I?" he asks in a whisper, his flesh caressing mine, as if asking permission as well. 

This time, I do not remind him that I had consented to everything three times over, but answer a simple, "Yes."

He licks his lips, and without a word, pushes in. 

My hands fists themselves in the sheets and I cannot resist but throw my head back against the pillow, a horrible sound leaving my lips. It does not hurt as much as the time I had tried with a finger and by myself, in the bath, since John uses oil, but it still feels uncomfortable, my body fighting the intrusion.

John kisses the corner of my open mouth, a silent question in his eyes, and I nod a single yes. He starts moving, a shallow thrust, and what felt uncomfortable a second ago is now rather exciting. Except that…

"Is it all of it?" I ask, sheepishly. He looked a lot bigger than what this feels.

John stops moving, confusion written over his traits. "I—" he starts, "it's— this is only my finger, Sherlock." 

"Oh." 

He huffs, and before he can stop himself, he's laughing, his forehead against my shoulder. "Oh— it's— oh— I'm glad—" 

I raise an eyebrow. Have I married Harris instead of John?

"I'm glad it's not the other way around," John wheezes.

"My apologies." Are we supposed to laugh in bed? Is it not terribly inelegant?

John surges forward, his finger still stuck in me, and kisses my lips. "Don't. It's to relax you before the actual… congress."

"Ah, yes." I remember now, what we discussed in the barn. I did not know John would apply this particular method to my body. After all, Moran seemed quite eager to get on with it, but I should probably not compare that man to my husband. 

My husband…

My husband, who is still laughing at me whilst he is supposed to be making love to me. That makes _me_ a poor husband, I believe. Not that I ever doubted I would be anything but that. 

"Stop thinking, my love," he whispers against my lips. I am about to point out that such a thing is easier said than done, but at the same time, he moves his finger in a way that makes me exhale the most horrid sound I have ever heard. 

He smiles, pleased with himself. "What was that?" I ask. 

"It's a— it's a gland, and we do not really know its function apart from procuring pleasure when it is touched like that."

"Oh," I say, my hand closing on John's forearm. "Do it again." 

He huffs, but complies, and soon enough, his finger is dragging across that part of my body, which I did not know existed in the first place, sending a cascade of sparks behind my eyelids. A finger becomes two, and I come to understand how pleasurable this will be once John himself will replace his hand — the parts of my body that lay soft from the brief uncomfortable sensation are now regaining interest. 

He grabs my thighs and I watch as he scoots forward, our bodies still hidden under the covers. Then, I feel it, the bluntness of his stiffness pressing against me, splitting my body in two—

This definitely feels different than a single finger.

I breathe hard, panting in John's shoulder, as my eyes distinguish the edges of his scar, something that I had not noticed before, too distracted with the sight of him.

"Are you all right?" he asks, once more. 

My answer is a vague sound, somewhere between pain and pleasure. He rocks forward, and I gasp, my hands fisting themselves in the sheets. John lifts my other leg and I instinctively wrap it around the small of his back, linking my ankles together. This brings him even closer, as he goes down on his arms, claiming my lips once more.

The old bed creaks as John makes love to me, shallows thrusts that grow stronger, the soft slap of flesh against flesh making me blush. If anyone would pass the door, they would know what we are up to, just by the sound of it.

"Oh God," John lets out. "Is it good for you?" 

"Yes, oh— John—" 

The back of my head hits the headboard, and John grabs me by the thighs and drags me down the bed, roughly, the duvet falling off one of his shoulders as his efforts redouble. A blind, hot hand spreads over my belly, before reaching my stiffness. He wraps his fingers around it, and as if he had known me this way all his life, tugs and twists in time with his love making. 

"Oh God," he repeats. "You're lovely." 

He brushes the same spot over and over again, and I can feel pleasure coiling in my lower belly. "More," I say, too far to care about keeping face. "John, more!" 

His hips slam forward, his face in my neck, as I wave my arms around his shoulders. "Oh— oh— _fuck_ ," he grunts, and _that_ is what, above all, makes me spill.

Over the blurred course of the next few seconds during which I reach my pleasure again, and again, and again, I hear John gasp, and thrust into me with considerable force, more than he dared so minutes ago. Finally, he crumbles upon me, his chest heaving, trying to catch his breath.

I breathe out, and now feeling as if my soul is back in my body, unclench my fists from the sheets, one whitened knuckle at the time. I groan when John slips out of me, for the feeling is entirely unpleasant. He gathers me in his arms, rolling us on our sides, and slips two fingers back into me. It does feel less empty that way. He kisses me, his mouth soft and not as passionate as before, but just as loving. 

I cannot help but smile. Begone, virtue, begone! I am now a happily married man, soon-to-be consulting detective!

I press my lips to John's, insistent. "Did I…" I start, not knowing how to exactly end that sentence. "Did I do it well?" 

I would hate to learn that I am absolutely horrendous in bed, for this is most certainly an area in which I do not have a lot of expertise. 

"You did wonderfully," John whispers, kissing me once more. 

I let my head down against the pillow, my body relaxing as John retrieves his fingers, causing a bit of discomfort, before wiping his hand on the sheets and curling his free arm around me.

How much have I longed to have him like this, just for me. And how long it took! There were times I most certainly believed it would not happen, but here were are, finally, together, as it should be. Although, now that I think of it…

"Are you sure this—" 

"I am sure," John cuts in, a look on his face. "You will not be any less clever in the morning, Sherlock." I huff, and he presses himself closer to me, his lips to my neck, my jaw. "Believe me, really." 

"All right," I say. I will make sure to stop having congress should I feel the process of my thoughts slowing down. Although I must say that this past year, my thoughts had been mostly occupied by John, not that it impeded my deductive skills in any way. "Was it good for you?"

John laughs, his eyes squinting as they usually do when he's truly happy. "I thought it was evident from the way I came shouting the walls down." 

Heat rises to my face, and I bury it in John's warm shoulder, his good one. "Good," I say, "very good." I turn on my back, facing the ceiling. "It was more pleasant than I thought it would be. I quite enjoyed myself as well, if you must know, and if although at first it was a tad uncomfortable, that feeling quickly faded away. I must admit you are quite the experienced lover, which is as well, as I reflected before, since if we had been both inexperienced, there would have been quite a lot of fumbling around." A pause. "I detest inexperience, in any field or situation, if you must know. Inexperience is the root of all problems, or should I say, people who theorise before having all the facts at hand. It's exactly like deduction, you cannot deduce something if you do not see the clues first, unfortunately, too many people base their deductions on intuition, or on feelings, which greatly compromises the scientific process of it. Do you see?" 

John hums, through a yawn. 

"Therefore, we cannot deduce without knowing all the constants, just like inexperienced people cannot make up their minds about what they do _not_ have experienced. If they did, it would irrevocably—" 

"Sherlock, my love?" 

"Yes? Do you not agree?" 

"You are babbling."

I turn my head towards him, so quickly the pillow makes a soft thud when it comes in contact with my cheek. "Dear Lord, I am, am I not?"

John shuffles forward, curling up around my body, throwing an arm over my chest. "I would say you were nervous, and that the babbling is due to your relief, but I do not think you would agree with that."

"Of course not, it's preposterous." 

John's eyes are bright, even in the darkness of the room, and there is a playful smile on his face.

"Are you laughing at me?!" 

"I love you," he says, surging on his elbows and coming just above me, smothering me with a kiss, just before he starts chuckling to himself. " _Inexperience is the root of all problems_ —" 

"Oh, do shut up," I half-laugh, wrapping my arms around him, and tug him down until he rests fully against me. 

He hums, content, as he lazes, lax in my arms.

"Still," I say, "I would like to have your opinion on it one day." 

"I promise that tomorrow's journey to London will leave us many hours to discuss such things. But for now… would you be terribly displeased if I took a few minutes to nap?" His eyes are already closed, and his voice has softened into a slow whisper. 

"Of course not," I say, although I find the request quite strange. I do not feel tired at all. On the contrary. Am I boring him?

"You have rather worn me out," he says, tongue in cheek but eyes still closed, and it sounds as though he means it as a compliment. Is it?

"Sleep John, I will be here." 

My words remain unheard, for his mouth is already half-open.

The next hour passes in total silence, only disturbed by John's soft snoring and the crinkles of the ashes in the fireplace. If at first I was uncertain about him going to sleep, I now see how lovely it is to witness him at his most vulnerable. I watch his features, committing every single one of them to my Mind Palace, from the different shades of the short strands of his hair, to the wrinkles underneath his eyes, the curve of his nose, the dip of his Cupid's bow, his chapped lips, that I know so well…

I would like to gently peel the duvet from his shoulders to detail his scar with my fingers, to witness the strength of his resting bare arms, the dip between his collarbones. I would explore lower and lower, my gaze resting on the parts of his body I barely know, on the parts that just brought me so much pleasure. I would travel my palms down his legs to the plant of his feet, which nature made so inelegant, in my opinion, but which I would love nonetheless, worship nonetheless, because they are John's.

I watch the man sleep in my bed, amazed and still slightly surprised that this man is _my_ man, that he promised his life to me, his body to me, his soul to me. I am most unworthy of him, but never in his eyes. 

Needless sentimentalism, I tell myself. John is capable of rational decision, and my presence in his life has not stopped his ability to judge what is good for him. He is certainly good for me. 

And in more than one way, as I feel myself growing hot and stiff again, most likely from his close presence in my bed, from his arm still wrapped around me.

I carefully scoot forward, as to not wake him, feeling his skin against mine. I press against his thigh, biting on my lower lip. I am not exactly sure what I am trying to achieve here, encouraging my arousal this way. But he is too delightful to resist. 

My mouth falls open, my breathing harsher than a second ago. In his sleep, John rearranges himself and tugs me closer to him, further pressing my parts into his skin. The natural urge for friction overtakes me, and I make the most shameful little movements, as if trying to make love to his thigh.

Well, it is a lovely thigh. 

"Oh, again, already?" John whispers, and my gaze shoots up, to see that he is awake, eyes open, lids heavy. "Don't stop, that felt lovely," he says, voice hoarse from sleep, for my body had frozen into place.

"I— I don't know that— I'm ready for congress again, but my… bottom still feels sore," I admit. 

"Don't worry," John says. "We don't have to do it again tonight if you don't feel like it. Or at all. And I'm not ready yet, but you can keep doing that, though, unless you want to try something else." 

I frown. "Doing what?" 

"Rubbing like that against me."

"Isn't that wrong?" 

John jerks his chin back. "Wrong? Why would it be wrong?" 

"It's… _fornication_." 

He bites on his lower lip, before kissing my jaw. "Do you not find it pleasurable?" 

I look down. "I— well, yes, a bit." 

"Then it is true enough for you. For me."

I blink. Does John really want me to rub against him until I spill? Not that I don't believe I could achieve such a feat, but isn't that kind of activity most unrefined?

Before I can say so, John's hands are around me once more, grabbing at my back, as if urging me to rock against his skin. He angles his thigh, letting us touch again, and my instincts take the better of me as I thrust up, a gasp on my lips. 

"Kiss me," John orders, and I am happy to oblige him, too self-conscious and yearning for a distraction. 

My mouth finds his, and I let him toy with my lips, my tongue, as I rub against him, quicker and quicker against the hard muscles of his thigh. His hands drop to my bottom, squeezing it hard. I yelp, moving forward, and he tries to kiss me harder, but I can only pant and grab his shoulders, as I feel pleasure coiling in my lower belly. 

John's hands work the cheeks of my bottom, kneading it, spreading them as if he were about to enter me again. He may still be soft between his legs, but the man knows how to make love with his tongue and hands.

My breathing too heavy, his lips move on to my neck, pressing kisses here and there, until his mouth latches on my skin in a way that will most surely leave a bruise behind. I close my eyes, and the barest hint of teeth against my neck makes me spill hard, all over his thigh. 

"Oh, John," I pant, hiding my face in his neck.

His arms wrap around me. "Is it real enough now?" 

"It is." 

"There are many ways to make love, Sherlock, and I want to try them all with you, if you are so amenable." 

I nod, now understanding what he meant about feeling tired before. It seems as if all energy has left my body, but it is quite all right, since he is there to hold me.

***

It is only when I open my eyes again that I understand I had fallen asleep. I lift my head off my pillow, angry at myself for having slept at all during my wedding night. 

John is looking at me, smiling. 

I huff and wiggle closer to kiss him on the mouth. His body is warm and even though I have never shared a bed with someone before, I find it quite pleasant. My feet tend to get cold in the winter, but they shan't anymore.

I pop up on my elbows, before sitting up, knees bent at my side. One of my hands is still on John's jaw — he picks it up and kisses the palm, gazing directly in my eyes.

I look down his body, his shoulders, the place where the duvet brushes against his collarbone. "I want to see all of you," I say, before I can retain the words. 

John's eyes widen momentarily, before his lips crack a smile. "Be my guest." 

He lets go of my hand and crosses his arm under his head, raising it a bit. His features are both playful and curious when I peel the duvet from his body, my eyes not leaving his face. It is only when the duvet reaches his knees that he kicks it away, letting it fall halfway down the bed.

I look down, vast plains of unclothed skin burning my eyes, before I settle my gaze once more on his face. I roll on my front, this time unbothered by my nudity. We are all made the same, after all, and there is no congress to hide… although I would quite like to take the covers off next time, to see what it looks like, but I do not want John to think of me as depraved. 

I kiss him again and curl around his side, my fingers on his jaw as our lips part again. With a hum, I travel them down his neck, to feel the bob of his Adam's apple. Just like I imagined earlier, I make my way down his shoulder until I meet the rough scarred skin a bullet had once gone through. 

"You do not mind," I deduce, as I circle it with the tips of my fingers. 

"No. It doesn't hurt, and it's not something I care to hide. From you, anyway," he adds, as if an afterthought.

I bend over his body and put my lips to the scar, and the gasp that follows make my blood go cold. I lift my head, only to notice that John is not angry at me, but merely surprised and… pleased? He grabs a handful of my hair and tugs me upwards until he takes my lips in a harsh kiss, full of tongue and teeth. 

"I was— not done—" I manage to say, under his heated ministrations. 

"Go ahead," he chuckles, releasing his hold on me. 

I smile, and sit back again to take a good look at his chest. His nipples are small and protruding as if he feels cold. I skim my hand over the left one, and a shiver runs down John's body. Does he enjoy this? Is that something people _can_ enjoy? I do the same on the other side, and watch as John bites on his lower lip. Visibly, this does something to him.

There is no time to dwell, and so my hand picks up his left arm instead, watching how the muscles curve when I make it move. This is most interesting. I never had a willing subject upon which I could study the mechanics of human movement, but maybe John will be amenable. I repeat the same protocol on his right arm, so fascinated that I barely catch his amused expression. 

I huff, waving a hand, before moving down to the rather sensitive part between his legs. Not to dwell on it would mean that I am prudish when it is far from the case. It is just that I do not want John to think anything bad of me. 

I look down, confronting _it_ , my heart beating fast in my chest. It is big — have I said so already? — especially in girth, and was completely straight when ready for coitus. Not like mine, which looks stupidly small like that but can get quite longer in the right situation, and curves to the left, which I find now to be silly, in comparison. John's member lies there, not completely uninterested, over a set of testes nested in a thick cloud of blondish hair, a shade darker than the hair on his head. 

I find myself with the irremediable urge of shoving my face in there. 

Is it wrong that I want to smell it? Maybe even… to taste it? I feel the heat rise to my face as I remember where it has been a few hours ago. Surely something that goes up a man's bottom does not belong in anyone's mouth. 

I shake my head, and move along, inspecting John's legs. They are strong and muscled just like his arms, with sparse blond hair that scintillates slightly from the glow of the dying fire. 

"I have trouble believing this is true," John whispers. 

I focus on him again, my hands on his thighs. "Yet it is. Every single fact points to the reality of our current situation." 

He chuckles. "It does," he says, "but still, I wanted it so much and for so long that I thought this day… this night might never come." 

"There were certainly moments that we thought this might not happen."

"Yes, quite," he says, saddened. "I have imagined this a hundred times over the past year and few months," he adds, this time with a smile.

I jerk my chin back. "Really? You mean…" _Having congress?_

He licks his lips, looking down to my hands on his body. "Well, yes. Have you ever… thought about it?" 

"Not really," I say, with a frown. Should I have?

John sits up, and puts a hand on my arm, his nose brushing against my cheek. "Oh, come on, you must have. Late at night, or something of that kind?" 

I say nothing. 

"Never? Not once?" 

I can hear the teasing in his voice, but I am not sure I want to confide in him, for he would surely laugh more. But then, John _is_ my husband, he surely can have access to this sort of information.

"Maybe once or twice," I say. 

He kisses my cheek, his hand going up and down my arm. "Tell me."

"It is idiotic." 

"And I bet it is not." 

"Fine," I grumble, defeated. "If you must know, I had a dream once…" 

"Yes?" 

"When you came to Sherrinford that second time. We went riding." 

John hums. "I do remember. That was the time you nearly killed yourself by falling off that horse at full speed gallop, and sprained your ankle." 

"I did _not_ sprain my ankle," I contest, "but yes, I am talking about that time. Your… behind, when you rode… it was quite…" 

His smile is bright enough to outshine the sun, and I am fairly sure he is laughing at me. "Yes?"

"It was quite good, all right? And I had a dream about it, that you— oh, I do not know how to say that. We were having congress and— well, you were… I was on my back, and you were on top, and— it is as if I was the… the horse, and you were… for a lack of a better term… riding me," I finish, sheepish. "It is idiotic, I know," I add, waving a hand to dismiss what I have just said. 

John catches it, and presses the knuckles to his lips. "Not idiotic at all, love." 

I frown. "Really? And there might have been— another—" 

John sits up, catching me in a tight embrace, as I let my head fall against his shoulder. "Yes?"

"At my birthday, after you left," I say, my fingers tracing lines between the freckles on his other arm. "You told me— you told me _things_ , and well, I imagined you, kneeling in front of me, and oh… I have to admit I touched myself that night." 

John's silence goes on for another moment, so long that I am sure I have said something out of place. I look up to his face, but his expression does not seem disgusted or angry. Instead, confusion is written in the curve of his brow, along with a certain softness that is most certainly born out of love. 

He leans away from me, eyes wide. "Sherlock… When I told you I would go on my knees, what did you think I would do?" 

"I do not know. As I have said, I simply imagined you… looking at me. Is that not good?" 

John's expression cracks and a grin spreads on his lips. "It's good, but I know something better," he says. "Now, lie down. It's my turn to have a look at you if you do not mind." 

"Of course I do not," I say, maybe a bit defensively. 

Without a word, I unfurl myself from John's arms and lie down, head on the pillow, arms to my side. John, still smiling, bends over me, and as I did, starts his exploration from the tip of my head and goes down from there. 

His method is quite different from mine, less analysing, less objective — he presses warm kisses to my skin where it pleases him, and a constant litany of compliments flows out of his lips.

"You are the most gorgeous man on this Earth," he says, his mouth on my belly, hands digging into my waist. 

It tickles there, and I cannot help but squirm. I am most grateful now for the lack of a moustache. The thought makes me chuckle, and John lifts his head, curious. 

"Nothing," I say, a smile on my face. No, he did not look his best with a moustache, but… maybe a beard? 

"All right," he says. He rubs his face to my belly, and I suck it in, chuckling again. How can one love such playfully as he does! "I am going to try something. Say anything should you want me to stop." 

I nod, my breath sticking in my throat. What is John going to attempt, now? 

I watch carefully as he slides his mouth closer to my thighs, before his nose brushes against… well, against my most private parts. My fingers curl in the sheets, and I already imagine him moving along down my legs, but he does no such thing. 

Instead, he licks me. _There_.

"John!" I gasp, and I would have pushed him away if that very act had not sent sparks down my spine. My interest is growing rapidly, my body unconscious of the wrongness of this. Surely such parts of the body should not be touched with one's mouth!

"All right?" John asks again, his voice rough, pupils dilated. I can see that his own member is stiff between his legs, as if excited from the prospect of kissing my body this way.

"I do not— I don't know." 

"Do you want me to stop?" he says, and I know should I say yes, he would do so, instantly. 

Instead, I shake my head, and let it fall back on the pillow. I feel the soft breeze of his silent laughter against my thigh, and I crunch my eyes shut the moment his mouth returns to its previous ministrations. 

He licks and licks, his nose brushing my hair, my testes, as if it were the most natural thing to do. And then — _heavens!_ — he takes me in his mouth. My fist flies to my lips as I nearly scream out, before it seizes the sheets once more, tugging hard.

I am too stiff and big for him to take all of me, and so he wraps a hand around my base, working his mouth up and down my member. The motion is quite similar to the tidal push and pull of coitus, except that I am in his mouth and not his bottom, and that it seems like he is making love to me and not the other way around. 

My jaw hurts as it is so tightly shut, as I feel the velvet of his tongue caressing the underside of my stiffness, sending sparks down my spine, making me grow hot and in need of release. I wish for nothing in the world but to bury myself deeper in the warmth of John's mouth, yet I do not want to hurt him and so rein that instinct in. 

This very act must excite him too, for I half-register that he has a hand wrapped around himself. He hums, content, around me, and I cry out, defeated. 

"John!" 

My climax catches me by surprise, for it feels as if John had only begun, but I spill and spill again in his mouth, and of all the most depraved things in this world, he swallows and takes my seed down his throat. 

A minute or an hour later, my hands are lax around the sheets, and I am now soft, feeling the coolness of the room at my center, slick from the saliva glistening on my skin. John, in contrast, now pressed to my body, is hot and needy. 

He searches for my mouth with his, but I turn my head at the last second. "I am not kissing you with your mouth like that!" I protest, and it makes him laugh.

He travels his lips to my jaw, my neck, instead, and I can feel the stretch of his smile. "Let me deduce that you enjoyed this very much," he says, pleased with himself. 

I roll my eyes. "Obviously, I did." 

"No more qualms about… fornicating, then?" 

"I do not believe in Hell," I say. "But if it were real, I would be ready to risk it for this." 

He laughs, before rolling over me, his hands on each side of my face. "Then I shall kneel for you every single night for the rest of our lives, or until you get bored of it." 

I grin. "I doubt that will happen. But," I realise, "you have not yet…" 

He hums, and drags his member across my belly. I am about to suggest that I should try doing what he just did to me, although I do not think I would be very good at it, but before I can place a word, he rolls off the bed and stands up. 

"In a moment," he says. "First, I need to wash my mouth. It won't bring me as much joy if I cannot kiss you," he adds, with a wink and a smile, and I melt further down into the sheets. 

I watch as he walks through the room, unbothered by his nakedness, nor by his stiffness proudly jutting out between his legs. He goes through the small door that leads to my private bathroom, and I hear the sound of splashing water, before he returns to the room, lips glistening, a smile on his face. 

"There," he says, as he lies down again, his body against mine. 

This time when he bends down, I let him kiss me. His mouth and tongue are cold from the water, and I shudder at the thought of where it has been just a few minutes ago — more from interest than disgust.

John's breathing gets heavy as he rubs against me, the press of his lips messier, less coordinated. I look down between our bodies to witness the slide of his member, digging through my hip and belly as if he wants to bury himself there. 

Should I offer him to take me again? I wince at the thought. My bottom still feels uncomfortable after this first time, even though I did enjoy it a lot. I shall feel better tomorrow, certainly, but I do not want more of that tonight. 

Hasn't John just said there are many different ways to love one another?

"May I… touch you?" I ask, a hand on his chest, the other wrapped around his neck. 

"Yes, please," he breathes out, his voice small and more vulnerable than I ever heard him.

He shall not beg for long, for I trail my hand down his body without hesitation, and wrap it around him. 

It feels slightly different than my own, and the angle is wrong, of course, but the moment I start to pull at him, John whines, low and deep. Biting my bottom lip, I bring my attention to the movement of my wrist, abandoning his lips altogether as he presses his forehead to mine. His eyes are tightly shut, his mouth is half-open, and his hips snap forward at once as he searches for his pleasure in my fist.

"Good Lord," he breathes out.

"Quite," I say, just to tease him, and it makes him chuckle, if not for very long, as another shiver goes through his body. 

He wraps his hand around my own, and directs me in quicker, faster, but also tighter strokes. I did not know he liked it that hard, and I should not have done it myself for fear of hurting him, but it is evident that this pace satisfies him from the grunts and silent words that escape his mouth.

I follow his rhythm, remembering exactly what he prefers, until his hand becomes relentless and I fear mine will cramp.

"John," I say, warning him, but he must not have understood the meaning of my plead, for he bangs his free hand to the headboard and snaps his hips forward one more time before his member stiffens in my hand.

"Oh God, Sherlock!" he shouts, and spills across my chest three times. 

His seed is cool and sticky, and it would have excited me greatly if only I had not climaxed myself minutes ago. Breathing heavily, he drops on me, smearing his release between our chests. 

I bring my arms around him and fist one of my hands in his hair. "Oh, John," I say. I want to ask if I did it all right, but I know that I did — every fact is pointing towards that inevitable conclusion. And if I do so every night, just like John has shown me now, I will make my husband a happy man.

Smiling to myself, I kiss the top of John's head, and roll my eyes at the snore that soon enough, rises from him. 

My husband has got quite the stamina, but he needs a few minutes to recharge before the next round.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're shortly getting to the end of this fic, friends. We only have one chapter left and an epilogue, which won't be as long as an average chapter. As always, biggest thanks to my wonderful beta, Arcwin, and to you dear readers, especially those who so graciously leave comments behind! I am still late on answering them all, but I will get to it one at the time. Thank you, thank you, thank you. <333


	17. Chapter 17

For the first time in my life, my body wakes intertwined with another.

Yawning, I turn my head, colliding with an unknown shoulder, and the quiet comfort I was in transforms into sudden panic. I look up, heart beating in my chest, and my eyes meet the deep blue of John's. 

I sigh. "It is you," I say.

"Of course it's me," he says, sounding hurt, but he is only teasing. 

I chuckle, and wrap an arm around him, under the duvet, before I turn my body to face his. "Were you watching me?" I ask, for it is clear that he has been awake for quite some time now. 

Warm lips against my temple. "Just a bit."

I roll my eyes, and yawn again. "We will have to get out of bed soon, if we do not want to arrive in London too late." 

"In a moment," John says, as his fingers lift my chin to make our mouths collide. 

The kiss is slow and languid as we are both still heavy with sleep. I rub my feet against his calves, and a smile grows on my face. If I had not spent myself so many times during the night, I would be in want of him right now. Yet he is as soft as I am, and that is as well, for this is a tender moment that has nothing to do with the passion of coitus.

My rationality is aware that this is all real, yet all of it feels as if a dream. I am in bed with my husband, a man whom I love more than I know how, about to go to London for the first time, to establish my consulting practice there. The first day of a new life. 

But there are some things that need to be done first—

"Good morning, sirs," Thomas says from the other side of the door. "You are called for breakfast. May I enter?" 

"Yes, of course," I say, just as John mutters an "I—", going for the covers which he brings up on our bodies. 

The moment the door opens, Jack pushes his head through and the rest of his body with it, and jumps on the bed in a flurry of red fur and excited yaps, as if we had been separated for years and years and not a single night. 

"Hello Jack," I say, as I sit up in bed, ruffling his ears and head as he bumps with my nose to lick my face. 

John laughs, and Jack turns his attention towards him, giving his ears a few kisses as well. 

"Happy to see you too, dear fellow," John says, but he dares not escape the cover of the duvet. 

When Jack has finally calmed down enough to sit on the bed, I notice that Thomas has already taken both our outfits out for the day. Traveling clothes, in prevision of what's ahead. My heart beats fast in my chest, and if I were not watching myself, I would most certainly start behaving like Jack himself and start jumping around.

"If I may say, Mr and Dr Holmes," Thomas says, facing us, "you both look very happy." 

"We are," John answers, "thank you, Thomas." 

"Mrs Holmes is quite pleased with how everything went, yesterday. Although I doubt she will remain that way should you be late for breakfast."

I groan, about to stand out of the bed, but then, there is one last matter to settle. "Is there a doctor here for me?" I ask Thomas, whose eyes grow wide. 

"A doctor, sir? Certainly not. The only doctor I know of is the one in your bed," he adds, with a wink.

I hear John exhale behind me, clearly relieved. I must say that I am as well. Not that I regret what we did yesterday, but I would rather not have any other doctor than my husband prod around such intimate parts of my body. 

I get out of the bed, shoving the sheets back, and stand up for Thomas to dress me. Jack follows me, and plants himself between my legs, and I have to shoo him away as I put on my breeches.

"Is sir not getting dressed?" Thomas asks, in John's direction as he's buttoning my waistcoat. 

I thought the same thing for a moment, but now I remember John's first day at Sherrinford, last year, when he had been attended by Anderson. And now, he is still lying in bed, a hand on Jack's head, who had abandoned my company for someone more suitable to his need of attention, duvet covering him to his neck. He does not want to show is scar. Yet, I feel like there is something more… 

Is my husband… _shy_ of showing all of himself in front of a valet? When he so confidently exposes his body in front of me?

"In a moment," John says.

"Just done with Mr Holmes, sir," Thomas says, as he helps me with my overcoat. "If you please." 

"It is fine, Thomas," I intervene. "I will help John getting dressed myself."

Thomas blinks, momentarily, before he nods and stands back. "Do you need anything else, sir? Do I need to take Jack with me?" 

"No, you can leave him here. Thank you," I add, which I rarely do, but I want him to understand that he did nothing wrong, that it is not that he is not wanted here.

Thomas nods, and exits the room, with one last bow to each of us. 

The moment he is gone, John stands out of the bed, and comes to weave his arms around me. "Thank you for that," he whispers. 

"Of course," I say, my hand on his arm. "I sometimes forget you were not brought up in this world. But really, it is Thomas you dare not be naked in front of?" 

"I don't think it's something I will ever understand." He kisses my cheek, my temple. "I am able to dress myself, and I prefer that you should be the only one to see me this way." 

I smile. Of course, John has had lovers in the past, but from now on I will be the only one to hold the secrets of his body. The _only_ one. 

"All right," I say, pleased with his words. "Let's get you ready, or Mother will seek any way to get an annulment shall we be late for breakfast."

A few minutes later, as we stand outside the room, I hear a few maids rushing in from the bathroom, most likely to inspect the sheets and bring the news to Mother regarding the status of my virtue. 

I am quite pleased with the evidence left behind, from the four times my husband has loved me during the night. 

***

Hours later, John and I are stepping in the carriage that will bring us to London, not after having been hugged by Mother and Father too many times to count. Mycroft had to return to the Parliament early in the morning, and Mother made me promise to meet him as soon as possible, which might as well be never.

Jack is with us when we finally sit down in the carriage, shoulder to shoulder, as the valets bring the last of our (but mostly mine) luggage. 

I cannot help but smile as the horses start in a slow trot, Sherrinford's inhabitants waving to us as we get further and further away. When I finally sit back on my seat properly, John's hand takes mine in his lap, and squeezes once. I know he believes that I am secretly distraught at leaving home behind, yet the truth is far from it. I cannot wait to be in London already, even though the journey will take a few hours.

"We can come back whenever you want," he whispers to me, nose on my cheek. 

I turn my head. "Never, you mean!" I exclaim, and that makes him laugh.

All right, maybe not _never_ , but not in a long time, at least.

I watch through the window as Sherrinford becomes smaller and smaller behind us, as we pass in front of Stamford's manor. As we enter the woods, I notice the fork where I got lost as a child, taking the wrong direction. Carefully, I enter every single turn in the road into my Mind Palace, as to be able to return to London on my own should I ever get imprisoned between Sherrinford's walls again.

Minutes, maybe even hours pass, as the sun runs through the sky just as our horses gallop towards their destination. At some point, John states that we must eat, even though I am not hungry at all, he takes out the lunch Mother had had prepared for our journey.

This interests Jack a lot, as he places his head between our thighs, his hazel eyes doing their best impression of a starving pup in need of some finely-cooked jerky, which he obtains more than he should have. John is not at all reasonable about such matters, and Jack had got him wrapped around his little finger since the beginning.

"This way is to Harrington's," John informs me, as we pass another fork in the road.

"You visited him?" I exclaim, frowning, since it is evident that he got this information that way. 

"Well, yes, I did, once or twice. He's a friend, after all." Oh, dear John, unable to be precise. "Why? Does it bother you?"

"It does not," I say, turning once again to face the window. 

John chuckles, although not happily. "Well, it evidently does. Please tell me," he adds, his voice softer. 

"It is nothing, really," I say, now slightly ashamed at having made a whole affair out of this, and that it is causing John distress.

"Do you not… trust me? Around him? I can assure you that we're friends and friends only." 

I close my eyes for a second. "Of course, of course I trust you. I know there is nothing to blame either of you of, it is just— a dream, again, that I had. It is of no importance, really." 

This time, John's smile is truthful, as he takes my hand and brushes his thigh and sides to my body. "I do like hearing about your dreams." 

I look down, heat burning my cheeks. Can I reveal that I witnessed him naked, once, before our wedding night? The day he ran into that river with Harrington will always be imprinted in one of the drawers of my Mind Palace, but I never believed I would have to share that secret, especially not to a person it concerns so.

" _Please_?" John pleads, teasingly. 

Oh, fine, I give up. "Do you remember that day when you played cricket at Sherrinford?" 

"I do." 

"You ran away with Harrington, after that, and… well, Lady Margaret and I followed you, and you do not know this, but I saw… both of you, in the river. Quite… naked." 

John's eyes widen, and a smile grows on his lips. "Of course I knew you were there." 

"I— _what_?"

"Oh God, Sherlock, why did you think we were behaving like such fools if not to impress the both of you?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Impress?" 

"Amuse, more so," John chuckles. "You will not believe how I longed for you to join us, just to see you— oh, it doesn't matter anymore, does it not?" 

He pauses, whilst I ponder upon this revelation. John had known I had followed him, and still decided to divest in the middle of the forest, to jump in a freezing river and splash around with a friend. All of it, knowing I was watching behind a tree. Ridiculous, ridiculous man!

"But what was that part about a dream?" John reminds me, and I groan, for I thought it had escaped his attention. 

"That night… The dream I told you about yesterday, well, there was another as well." 

"Oh?" 

I pat on Jack's head, looking away. "It might have involved you… and Harrington… in the river. _Being_ involved."

I lift my head just in time to see John's eyes widening. " _Really_?"

I nod. Is the carriage jumping up and down a lot more, or am I going to be sick?

"And is it… something that you enjoyed, seeing me and Harrington…?" 

I frown. "Of course not! I had, perhaps, a certain curiosity about it. About discovering that you were… inclined this way. I already knew about Harrington, but I had not deduced it off you yet. The moment I realized, I—" 

"Yes?" 

"The dream placed me where Harrington just was." _In your arms_ , I do not say. _The both of us, embracing_.

John bites on his lower lip, evidently pleased to hear me say so. "And what were we doing, in the river?" 

I look away. "Just… kissing," I say, and John laughs, for he must not believe me.

"That must have been quite the dream, naked kissing in a river," he says with a chuckle, as he comes to kiss my cheek. 

"Oh, stop it already," I say, and wave a hand at him. "Does this mean… that you liked me already, that day? You just said you wanted to… amuse me."

"Of course I did!" John exclaims. "I was mad for you since the very first day we met."

"Really?" 

" _Yes_. Do not doubt me, my love. When we will get home tonight I will show you the extent of my devotion in a hundred new ways." 

I look down, his words leaving me flustered. "Not before I get a good look around London!" I say, scrambling for words. 

He takes my hand in his, and lifts it to press his lips to the back of it. For the first time today, there is something sad in his eyes, and I am sure I am somehow the cause of it. 

***

London is _grand_.

It is even better than what I had imagined, even better than what I have read about it, even in the most recent scientific reports. I feel like my heart is going to outlet my thoughts and fly away from my chest, yet I need to remain calm to retain every single detail I can, and add it later to the designated room in my Mind Palace. 

But, it is oh so big, and there are so many things to remember that it feels like this endeavor is impossible, even to a mind like mine!

The carriage makes twists and turns that, according to my mental map of London, is bringing us closer and closer to Baker Street, the flat that John has bought us a few months ago. He has not lived there yet, as he told me he wanted for us to move in together at the same time.

A new chapter, in a new life.

"Here it is," John whispers in my ear, as the carriage turns one last time. "This is—"

"Baker Street, of course." 

The street is long, with similar facades all the way, and I cannot discern yet the number 221 even if I crane my neck in an uncomfortable manner, but soon enough, the carriage comes to a halt.

"We're here," John says, although he does not sound nearly as joyful as I feel inside, and that seems to be from the moment I mentioned Harrington. 

Trying to forget about the whole ordeal in the hope that John's mood will pass, the valet opens the door of the carriage, and John steps out first, lending me a hand as I exit the exiguous space we shared for a few hours. Jack follows us, his tail wagging, and I grab onto the new leash we bought for him.

221's door is black and brightly marked with its number. John extracts a key from his pocket, and hands it to me. 

"Will you do the honors?" 

I look down, and step to the door, which I open with a turn of the key.

"I believe Mrs Hudson it out for the day," John says, as no one is there to greet us downstairs, "but it is as well, for we will not eat here tonight." 

"Oh?" I ask, but John does not answer, as I am already halfway up the stairs. 

It is small, a lot smaller than Sherrinford, of course, but comfortable enough for two grown men and a dog to live here. It is not exactly like sharing close quarters with my husband will be a hardship, after all.

There are, exactly, seventeen steps between the first and the second floor, upon which our flat is situated. Not too much, but just enough to be comfortably separated from Mrs Hudson's flat downstairs.

Without waiting for John, I open the door to 221b, Jack and his leash between my legs. 

I gape. "You told me the wallpaper is horrible!"

"Is it… not?"

"Of course not! It is wonderful!" 

I do love the colors, the dramatic black and white of the irises, and the other wall that is entirely green, fitting with the dark wood of the fireplace. Just as John described to me earlier, there are two armchairs, a writing desk and a table for tea and dinners. It is small, more so than I imagined in my head, but my heart swells at the idea of having a place of our own, however tiny it may be.

Without waiting further, I move towards the back of the flat, and open the door to our bedroom. John, once again, was right on all accounts: the bed _is_ bigger than the one I have at Sherrinford, suitable for a married couple and their nocturnal… activities. There is another warm fireplace here, and a basket that I know has been made just for Jack, who is already sniffing it curiously. 

"Let's leave our luggage here and go out at once!" I say, once our tour of the flat is done, and we are back in the living room. 

John, who is playing with some kind of object he has just found on a table, looks down. "Do you want me… to accompany you?" 

I turn my head, my eyes growing wide. "Of course! Why wouldn't I?" 

It is evident he has been feeling queer since we got in the carriage. Is he regretting this? _Now_?

He drops on the red armchair, hands rubbing his face. "It is quite all right if you want to spend some time… alone. I know this is important to you," he says, dropping one forearm to the chair, but still looking down. "You waited for this your whole life, and I doubt you imagined being stuck with me when you would finally get to it." 

_Stuck with him?_

"My dear John!" I exclaim, going on my knees to seize both of his hands and link our fingers together. "Are you implying that I married you as a way to get to London? What made you think such a preposterous thing?!" 

He looks at me, a slight, trembling smile on his lips. "Not yesterday, no, of course not, but earlier today… You seemed so eager to get to London. I simply… do not know where I enter in this equation." 

I surge forward, encircling him with my arms, still kneeling between both of his legs. "Of course I was eager to get here! I dreamed about it all my life, but not nothing in the world could have prepared me to the eventuality of having someone to share my happiness with. I love you, John, and I married you because I truly do so. Should I choose between this city and you, do not doubt my words when I say I would choose you." I press my cheek to his shoulder. "But do not make me choose," I reflect, more lightly. 

He chuckles, a wet, wet thing, and I let go of him to see him better.

"I am a very poor husband if I made you doubt the sincerity of my feelings for you," I say. 

I dare not look at his face, but his thumb gently comes to caress my cheek where it is wet. "Do not say that, my love, I should not have doubted you in the first place." 

He kisses my forehead, and then my lips, his hands on each side of my face. I kiss back with the intensity and passion that hopefully translate the depth of my affection for him, but I think that would be a rather impossible feat to achieve in a simple kiss. 

"I have a plan," I say, and that makes John smile. "Let's wash our faces, go out and explore the city for the rest of the week. I already have stored its maps in my Mind Palace but I want to know every street, every corner as easily as if they were Sherrinford's corridors. And then, I promise you a whole week in bed, just us, to get our energy back after all that walking." 

"I doubt a week in bed will get my energy _back_ , but this sounds like a wonderful idea." 

***

We spend the rest of the day walking around London, at first exploring Baker Street and the few corners around our flat. There are a lot of people, more than I have ever seen in a single place, along with carriages running up and down the streets. Jack is curious about everything, just like I am, and when we finally return to 221b, it is only to leave him behind for John says he has arranged quite the surprise for me this evening.

On the way, he tells me that since they could not have made it to Sherrinford, he has invited a few of his friends at the pub they usually gather, to celebrate our wedding. This might not have been the surprise I had imagined, but I do want to please John, so I accept to follow him once more in the city and greet his life-long friends. 

This his how, an hour later, we push the door to the Criterion, a small pub on a road intersection. 

The moment we step inside, we are greeted with shouts and glasses being raised so high the wine dances dangerously and splashes on the floor on certain spots.

I look away instantly, too much information around me to gather it in a calm manner, not when everyone is so restless around us. Fortunately, John's hand in my back keeps me grounded, until he steps forward and introduces us. 

"Everyone!" he exclaims, and repeats himself two or three times until everyone has calmed down enough. "Everyone, let me introduce you to my husband, Mr Sherlock Holmes." 

He turns his head to smile at me, and just like myself, heat makes a rather wonderful blush on his cheeks. At once, everyone stands up in a line to greet us (well, me, really, properly). 

It is only when I get a good look at them, that I realize I look entirely out of place. "Everyone here is wearing trousers, John!" I whisper to his ear. "You did not tell me people in London wear trousers!" 

"The French influence, I believe," he answers, distracted, before he catches the look on my face. "Oh, but I quite like you in breeches, my love. They suit you exquisitely." 

Well, maybe so, but I will have to go buy trousers first thing in the morning. It is evident from the looks I am receiving that they believe I am some exotic bird from a far away country. They are not quite wrong, but I do not want to appear as a stranger between the city's walls, which would not be conducive to detective work.

"Sherlock, darling, this is my good friend, William Murray," John introduces me to the first man standing in front of us, a fellow with gentle hazel eyes and brown skin — from what I remember with my earlier encounter with Lord Murray, is that William was born as a bastard, his mother a servant to the Murray family who unfortunately died in childbirth. Lord Murray did give his son his name and title, for he had no other children and did not intend to remarry (the love of his life, as I remember quite well, being liquor), and he grew quite attached to the young child. 

I can see why. Murray shakes my hand, a smile on his face. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Holmes, Watson— well, Dr Holmes, now, I suppose, has told me quite a lot about you." 

"Has he, now?" I say, quirking an eyebrow at John, who makes a face in return. 

"Only to give you the best qualities, I assure you," Murray chuckles. "In any case, I must say you chose well, Mr Holmes, Dr Holmes is one of the best men I've served with. I would trust him with my life. I _have_ , in fact."

"You're too kind, Murray," John says, his face slightly flushed. "How is your father, since we saw him last year?" 

Murray waves a hand. "Oh, you know the old drunk, too passionate to help himself, too stubborn to change."

"I'm sorry to hear that." 

"Don't be, it's inevitable, at this stage. But let's drop the matter, for we're here to celebrate, aren't we?" 

"Quite right, quite right." 

John introduces me to the rest of his friends, one after the other. There are a few men I shake hands with, but quite a lot of women as well: a rugged-looking lady with the nickname of Harry, wearing trousers and a waistcoat as if she were a man (it suits her quite well, I believe, but how late I am on the last fashion trends if women are dressing like men, now!). At her arm, another lady, Miss Clara, one she is obviously involved with, greets me with a bright smile and warm words, something Miss Sally doesn't, although she does congratulate the both of us on our recent wedding. Her tone of voice is rather cold, and I wonder if she has not been sweet on John this whole time, before I rightly deduce that Miss Sally is in fact interested in Murray, who does not seem to mind her very much. Finally, the last lady of the room, Miss Janine, introduces herself, and her face flushes quite hard as she addresses me directly, only for John to strengthen his hold around my waist. 

"Gentlemen!" Murray cries out, when I have finally been introduced to everyone, my head full of information and details that must have flown over John's head right away. "Come sit with us!"

He waves his hand at the glasses on his table, which he generously fills with red wine. 

I do not mind very much the conversation that follows, slowly sipping at my wine, my arm pressed to John's side, as I keep on deducing the company around us. No, Murray is not sweet on Miss Sally, who has been throwing us looks of jealousy since we sat down with him. Instead, she has gone to the women's table, as if such segregation was natural and necessary, but just like myself, she seems to barely hear the conversations around her. 

Miss Clara is half on Harry's lap, and they make quite a couple, as if they were truly man and woman and not women and women. I can now see that dressing like men is not something most women do, as I would have noticed it earlier when we walked through our neighborhood, but a thing that is specific to Harry. Yet, she does not seem to mind when I called her _miss_ , so maybe it is only in the way she appears that she wishes to be different from the others. Most fascinating. 

I drink, deduce some more, and at some point, take my husband's hands to lead him to where the musicians are playing, in a corner of the room. Three other couples are engaging in a style of dance I have not witnessed before — a pair of hands clasped together, the other on each other's shoulders. Unlike the dances I know, they do not change partners or let go of each other after a brief contact, but stay face-to-face as they sway together to the music. 

"It's called waltzing," John whispers in my ear, noticing my astonishment. "May I?" he asks, and extends a hand towards me. 

"John, I do not know how to dance this." 

Without waiting for my consent, he takes both of my hands and position them accordingly. "I will take the lead, then, you'll pick it up in no time. And you did say you're comfortable dancing the woman's part," he reminds me, my exact words on that first ball, ages ago. 

We chuckle at each other, and I let him guide me between the other couples. Even though my head feels heavy from the drinking, my steps are light and I find that waltzing is a lot more simple than our usual country dances.

I like it better, too. This way, I can gaze in John's eyes as we fly around the room, our steps falling together as easily as if we had practiced this before a thousand times.

We dance, and we dance, and we dance, until my feet are hurting so I cannot even imagine how dreadful John's leg must be feeling, but he is not letting it show at all, one of his brightest smiles on his face.

He kisses me at the end of our last dance, as we are both quite ridiculously laughing from unexpected bliss. He manages a bit of tongue in there and I swat at him, for we are in the presence of some fine company tonight and we should act like such depraved individuals. 

That only makes him laugh more. He announces he is going back to Murray's table, but as I am about to join him, Miss Janine steps up to me, weaves her arm with mine and winks at my husband. Winks at _my_ husband!

"I'm taking Mr Holmes to our table, Dr Holmes, you've had him enough for tonight and we're dying to meet him properly."

"All right," John allows, chuckling, "but do behave, Miss Hawkins," he adds, a bit more serious. 

It's not as if I can defend myself, John! But I do not want to be separated from him so soon — I can barely open my mouth to raise that objection that I am already tugged away in the direction of the table where Miss Harry, Miss Clara and Miss Sally are sitting.

"Oh, hello Mr Holmes! Come sit with us," Miss Clara exclaims, showing the available chair by her side. 

Janine lets go of me as I sit, and props a filled-to-the-brink glass of wine in front of me. 

"We have to admit, Mr Holmes, that we were quite surprised to hear that Dr Watson, _our_ Dr Watson, had suddenly married!" Miss Clara says, beaming. "And a lord, at that!" 

Miss Harry, beside her partner (not yet wife, I notice), snorts. "I thought he would go for Morstan." She glances at Miss Clara, who frowns at her. "Well, he _did_ marry her."

I open my mouth to tell her the truth, before I remind myself that John might not have told his friends what happened last year. We were trying to keep it quiet, although mostly out of my circle than his. 

"Please, Harry," Miss Clara says, "you know very well that our Mary and Watson were only friends. It was her wish not to spend her last days alone." 

"Do you think he took her to bed?"

Miss Sally snorts, and brings her lips to her glass of wine. She is clearly finding all of this very amusing.

"No," I hiss, "he did _not_ ," as the same time as Miss Clara exclaims, "Harry!"

"Do not listen to her," Miss Janine says, her tone acerbic. "She's always like that when she's had too much to drink." 

"I can see that," I say, jerking my chin back. No, I do not like Harry very much. It is quite evident that she likes to indulge in liquor and that it is not the first time it raises an issue between her and Miss Clara. 

"Is it also true, Mr Holmes, that your family is very rich?" Miss Janine enquires.

Ah, John must have told them the money came from me, and not him. "It is, indeed," I say.

"You look very much in love," Miss Clara adds. "We were watching you dancing earlier."

She sighs, as if such romance is forbidden to her — well, I see how that may be, since her partner is Miss _Harry_. I am about to say something entirely untoward when I remember to not act like a drunk imbecile myself. "We are," I simply answer, and look down at my lap.

"Who would have known Watson had it in?" Miss Sally says. "To marry well, and… above his station."

" _Had it in_?" I exclaim. But… we are in love! Is it not all that matters? To hell with money and station!

No one seems to be minding me, as if it does not matter that I should participate in a conversation about _my_ marriage, as Miss Clara waves a hand, "Oh, I knew! I knew he would find someone darling as Mr Holmes." 

" _Darling_?" What is wrong with these women!

Janine chuckles. "It's only that with those breeches and that coat, you look like you are out of one of those manors depicted in those quaint paintings of the country!" 

"Or from one of Miss Austen's books! I adored _Pride and Prejudice_! Have you read any of them, Mr Holmes?" Miss Clara inquires, her eyes wide. 

"I have not, and never will!" I roar. "Anyone with my mind would be above such… _entertainment_. A waste of time, if you ask me."

Miss Clara pouts, but before she can say anything, Miss Janine smiles at me, her chin propped on her hand. "You like him very much, Mr Holmes, your husband?" 

"Of course, I do."

"How lucky," Miss Clara says, another needy sigh on her lips. "As if out of a fairy tale, then, if you do not accept the comparison to Austen."

I wave a hand, reclining on my chair, slightly annoyed. If only they knew how much trouble we encountered on our journey, they would not be this starry-eyed in front of our happiness. Yet, of course, it is nothing I can share with them.

"I've always wondered what it would be like to see our Watson in love," Miss Janine says. "It suits him well. Do tell us, Holmes," she says, leaning over the table, conspiratorially, "is he ridiculously good in bed, as we have all wondered before?" 

I gape, as I feel heat rising to my face. Do people of lower birth always share the most intimate secrets of their relationships, or have I found myself entangled in a particularly decadent circle?

For a second, I do not wish to answer, for that is not their business at all, but it does feel like I need to defend my marriage at once, or else it will fall to more rumors. "Of course he is." 

"Oh, please," Harry says, "no one ever doubted that. It's _Three Continents Watson_ we're talking about. What I'm more doubtful about is…"

"Yes, we're all dying to have your opinion about that," Miss Janine says, rolling her eyes. 

"Well, he might have married out of love but how much do you bet that his lad isn't able to hold it together for two minutes before coming—" 

"Harry!" Miss Clara exclaims, and every single woman around that table bursts with laughter. 

I feel my face heating up even more, as I even witness Miss Clara placing her hand in front of her mouth to hide away her smile. It is evident that they are talking about me and that the quip was not of the kindest kind. _What!?_ I want to ask, feeling like a child who has not been let in on a particular secret. _What do you mean? Coming_ where _?_

Since I do not want to humiliate myself further, I stand up. "If you will excuse me," I say, courtly, as I nod a goodbye and turn my heels on them. 

" _If you will—_ " Harry wheezes behind my back, redoubling the common laughter, and I squeeze my fists by my thighs. 

John is in deep conversation with Murray back at their shared table, and so I cross the room, slightly stumbling on my feet, for I have drunk more than I intended to, tonight.

As I reach them, John stops mid-sentence to look up and smile at me, and that makes me weak in the knees, so I fall, bottom-first in his lap. 

"Oof—" he gasps, but I cut him off with a kiss, throwing my arms around his shoulders.

He hums into the kiss, but does not allow it to go deeper as he places his hands to each side of my face and gently push me away. I notice just then that Murray is staring at us, a smile on his face, but it is a genuine one. I dare hope that my kissing doesn't deserve mocking as well!

"You've had a bit to drink," John notices.

"Let's go home," I say, letting my head down on his shoulder.

John gently caresses my back. "All right," he whispers back. "Murray, it was quite nice to talk with you, but I'm afraid we're both rather tired after our journey today. I will write to you, about what we were just talking about, all right?" 

"Yes, of course," Murray says, his eyes glistening. "You deserve some time alone to celebrate."

John chuckles and presses a kiss to my head, after which lets me off his lap and stands too, to shake Murray's hand. "Thank you, my friend. We certainly will."

Is everyone around here trying to make a show of our private lives?! In any case, I shake Murray's hands as well, as he bids us goodbye one last time, and the pub sees us leaving with great show of disappointment for it is yet early in the night. 

Well, we both have better things to do, after all. 

***

221 Baker Street sees us stumbling on the stairs (I did tell John too many stairs would be a burden when drunk!), laughing and chasing each other up to our rooms, me with the definite advantage of having long legs, and John with the advantage of being small and quite stubborn. Jack makes a show of greeting us, too, but soon enough, we leave him behind in the living room, where he returns to his bed and his prior sleep, comfortable in front of the glowing fireplace.

We fall onto our new bed, too happy to kiss properly but to breathe against each other's lips, John on top of me, his body heavy and very, very real. His hands are on each side of my face, and I hold them there, until we are coordinated enough to be able to kiss properly. Slowly, he descends one of his hands against my chest, and down my body, until he finds me hard and wanting between my legs. He cups me there, tender but just a bit desperate too, a soft whine on his lips that I kiss away. 

I push into his hand, the need for friction too strong. I cannot control myself when he is like that with me… Am I too eager? Am I undesirable in that way? I suddenly cannot help but think about my earlier conversation with Miss Harry and the others. Is my inexperience truly abhorrent to a well-versed man like John?

" _Three continents_ …" I murmur, my head heavy from thoughts and liquor.

John stills. It takes him a moment to move again, as if he has forgotten how to function, but he groans and rubs his face in my shoulder. 

"Where did you hear that?"

"Miss Harry was quite happy to call you that in front of me." 

John smiles, although he does not seem happy. "Of course she would. She's impossible to handle when drunk. I hope your opinion of me has not changed too much?" 

I bite on my lower lip. "John… You said somewhere above twenty women…" 

John looks like he might be sick. We have both drank too much.

"Is that a lot? I mean, is that… more than average?" 

He looks away, before rolling on his side. I rearrange myself to face him, the both of us still clothed, lying on top of the duvet. I did not imagine the evening to be as chaste as it is now. 

" _John_? I cannot know if I do not have an element to compare with, and since I cannot compare you to myself—"

"It is," he finally says. "It is more than average. As I've said before… I was stationed both in Africa and in Asia, I did travel quite a bit and could not take any lover for a longer matter of time—" 

"Did you love any of them?"

John lifts his head, a frown on his face. " _No_ ," he says. "Well… One of them, I think I might have, if we would have had the opportunity to spend more time together, but that did not happen."

He extends a hand, and soon enough he turns to seal my mouth with a kiss. 

"I have never loved anyone before you, Sherlock." 

A kiss, and another. Yet I am reluctant, and I know he can feel it. 

"Sherlock. What else did Harry tell you?"

I look away.

"What did she tell you?" 

"I do not exactly know," I slowly say. "John? When one talks about congress, and mentions _coming_ , what does this—" 

John groans even before I can finish my sentence, and rubs at his face with both of his hands. "I am going to kill her." 

I reach for him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, swaying a bit, my balance not very good. "Do not. I do not want you to be the culprit of the first case I solve in London." 

He chuckles, and laces his arms around me, bringing me closer.

"Coming means the moment one reaches pleasure," John says. 

Yes, I thought so, but I am glad to see it confirmed. "I did not know it was undesirable to let it happen too quickly." 

"It is not," John says, pulling me into a tight embrace. "I find it most… well…" 

"Yes?" 

"Most exciting, if you want to know. I love seeing you reaching your pleasure so easily, Sherlock, it means that I am doing things right. And it is quite normal, you know, for the first few times to be over quickly. One day when we will be old and gray and not able to do much with our bodies we will miss these times," he adds, with a smile. 

I pull apart from him. "Do you not find my inexperience undesirable?" 

"Of course not. There is no greater pleasure than to see you discovering yours. It is an honor, if you want to know." 

"Oh, John," I say, "you are quite drunk." 

He laughs, and pulls me down on the bed. "Please, _you_ are the most dramatic drunk I have ever met." I try to object, but he kisses any resistance of mine away. "Do not worry about that, Sherlock. Harry has ways of getting in your head, you must not let her in. She is good about finding a man's weakest point. You asked me not to doubt you ever again, earlier today, and I must ask you the same right now," he adds, teasing. 

I groan.

"I am yours. Entirely yours. I _did_ decide to marry you, and I knew what it would entail… I do not care about your inexperience, Sherlock, for I love your mind first and foremost, and I will love your body as best as I can. I will make love to you under the covers for the rest of our days if that is what you so desire, if that is what you need of me. I love you. I want you, in any way or form. Please believe me." 

"I do, I do," I promise him. I was an idiot to doubt him, but Harry's words and the alcohol in my mind were too strong, painting a false portrait against my usually rational deductions. John made his own choices when he married me — I must trust him for it. 

John kisses my forehead, and looks in my eyes. "Tonight, I want you to take _my_ virtue." 

I gape at him, trying to ignore the twitch of my lower anatomy. "John? Have you—"

"Never before. Fingers, yes, but nothing more."

"Why not?" 

John hesitates. "My partners generally liked it better the other way around. And since I took your virtue, I can only offer you to take mine, should you be amenable, of course." 

"I—" I start, not really sure what to say. "I— of course. Are you sure?" 

"And to say you were nagging me about asking you the same, yesterday," he chuckles. "Of course I am. We do not have to do it if it does not please you…"

"Or you." 

John smiles at me. "That is very sensible," he says, and kisses me on the mouth. 

We exchange a few feverish kisses, my hands going at his necktie. I kiss his neck, where the skin is soft and warm, and return to his lips, as his hands divest me from my waistcoat and my tie. 

It is a battle from there to get all of our clothes off quickly enough to proceed. Breeches and shirts and socks fly away, and it already seems that I am used to my husband's naked embrace as our bodies collide on the bed, me on top of him. Not entirely naked, no — I had changed earlier, and now, John is groaning in my mouth as his fingers teasingly unlace the back of my corset, lace by lace, until the very end of those tickle my skin on each side of my back.

"You are killing me," he mumbles in a kiss. 

I smile. "Good." I sit up to undo the rest of the laces, hands in my back, while I look back at Joh, suggestively. "One day, you are going to make love to me whilst I'll be wearing only that."

I interpret the needy sound coming out of his mouth as a _yes_ , as he grabs me by the waist and smashes our bodies together, my lips finding his again. He is hot and stiff against me, as I am myself, and I cannot help but rub against him, sitting in his lap, a preamble of what is about to come.

And then, it hits me: I am going to be inside this man, inside my husband, _inside_ _my_ _John_ , in a matter of minutes. The thought excites me greatly, of course, for I did not think he would ever want to try it this way, seeing that I am somewhat considered as the weaker spouse from an economical standpoint. But John has never been about following rules and norms (dear God, he would have never put his mouth on me if that were so!), and I am dying to know how it will feel, to have congress the way my body was born to do. To know that he trusts me with his body, with his integrity, with his virtue… 

All of it makes me feel very lightheaded. 

"John," I say, as I sit back on my heels. 

"Right." He clears his throat, and moves to the night table, where a vial of oil is already waiting. "Fingers first," he tells me, as if I had not memorized how he has done it to me yesterday. 

"Of course," I say, "I know that." 

He chuckles, and presses a kiss to my cheek. "How do you want me?" 

"I do not know. How do you prefer?" 

I nearly sigh with relief as I see him getting on his back, for it will be easier for him to judge if I am doing something wrong. 

He brings his knees up, and I sit in front of him, getting some oils on my fingers. It is his turn to appear this vulnerable in front of me, legs raised like that, waiting for me to make love to him like he did to me yesterday. 

My hand trembles slightly as I bring it to his body. He gazes at me, expectantly, yet there is something soft in his eyes. John is, as always, of incredible patience when it comes to me. 

"Start with one," he says, guiding me. "Just press it against me—" I do, feeling my cheeks burn from touching him in such a place, "— and gently push inside." 

I follow his words, and my finger pierces him. I gasp. He is warmer there than I thought he would be, and I feel him contract around me, his body not understanding the intrusion. 

"Yes, you can go further, just like that—" 

It is idiotic that I am somehow the one who needs reassurance, and not John. But I must admit that I am a quick study, for I soon understand how to imitate the push and pull of coitus with a single finger, something that makes John writhes on the bed. 

"Another one," he urges me, and I comply, removing my fingers before adding two of them, repeating the same motions.

"Are you all right?" I ask, as I see him bite on his lower lip. 

"Yes, this is— very good. It would be even better— if you were kissing me." 

I flush at his words, yet I bend down, without disrupting the work of my fingers too much, and kiss him. It lasts for a while, so long that I both feel that my lips and my wrist are slightly becoming numb. Is this why John slept through last night? Perhaps coitus is harder on the… well, _dominant_ partner.

John catches both sides of my face, pulling me away from a last kiss. "Enough," he says, out of breath. "I need you, now."

I retrieve my fingers, and sit back on my heels. "All right." 

I am, myself, very ready, as my member is standing proudly between my legs, without having had to touch it at all. 

John looks at it, with a quick lick of his lips, before glancing back up. "How do you want me?" he says, in a voice he tries to be seductive, which makes me chuckle. 

"On your back?" I say, since we did it that way yesterday. 

John hums, and lifts his knees again. "Come here, then, my love." 

I blink, and take a moment to position myself between his legs. I do not mind not being covered by the sheets, but it is strange to do it this way — John can see so much of me, and he is obviously quite pleased about that.

I position myself against him, and feel my stiffness nudging at his opening. I am taken with the sudden need to enter him at once, but I refrain from doing so.

"John, are you sure I am not going to hurt you?" 

"You won't. Did I hurt you, yesterday?" 

I shake my head. "Of course not." 

Yet it did feel strange and uncomfortable at first, and I would like to spare John from that. It is, after all his first time this way — and mine this way as well. This is bound to be awkward.

"Sherlock? Do not think too much about it," John says. 

I nod, and without waiting further, press inside him. 

I cannot help but groan as I am enveloped in heat, the sensations so much stronger than when it only had been my finger. He is so very tight, so delectably warm, that I understand at once why people lose their heads over these kinds of matters. 

Above the physical, it is John that I am entering, John who is granting me permission to his body, to make him mine, to show how much and how well I can love him.

John's mouth is open, his fists gripping at the sheets, as I slowly, slowly sink into him, every muscle in my body retaining me from chasing my pleasure right away. Just as my testes hit his bottom, and I am fully in him, that I allow my eyes to roam over his body, over his heaving chest, a flush spreading down his neck and collarbones, one that I bend down to kiss. 

"Oh God, Sherlock," he manages to say, and I pursue his lips with mine, until I find them, moist and pressing and wanting. 

We kiss and we kiss, for so long that I am afraid dawn will turn on us too early in the sky, but there is no time when it comes to love. 

Here I am, waxing poetry again. If I only knew what it took…

"Are you?" I ask John, my lower belly strangled with need. 

"Yes, yes, please do," he begs me, and wraps his ankles behind my back, urging me to come closer.

I thrust forward, once, and already, I find myself over the edge of my climax, of _coming_ , as it has been designated earlier today. And so I replace great movement with smaller thrusts, barely moving in and out of John, who I dare hope is bearing with me until I regain a bit of composure. I would not want him to think badly of me should I _come_ (what a silly word!) too quickly, when he is still not yet satiated.

I close my eyes and throw my head back. John would be disappointed… John, who has been very good to me yesterday, would be terribly disappointed should I not please him as such, should I spill too fast for him to enjoy this, us pressed together, us—

I still, biting on my lower lip.

How stupid must I look like that, naked, trying to do something I absolute have no experience in?

John's hands travel on my chest, my shoulders. "Sherlock?" 

"John, I cannot do this."

"Of course you can," he says, with a soft chuckle. "You were just doing so. Oh— did you lose—" he does something with his bottom, sliding down slightly on me, and groans. "You haven't. What is wrong?" 

There is concern in his eyes, and I know I have already failed him. He should be enjoying this, not reassuring me. "It's just— you're looking at me." 

"Well, yes," John says, eyes widening. "You're quite lovely to look at, you know."

"John, I cannot—"

He hushes me, and the next thing I know, he wiggles away from me until we are completely separated, my member leaving his body with the most horrible sound.

I want to get out of bed and stomp away — it's evident that I am no good at this, that I should spend the rest of the night on the loveseat in the living room, with Jack — but instead of urging me away, John does the most incredible thing and turns on his hands and knees, his bottom presented towards me. 

"Maybe it will work better like that?" 

My throat dries up instantly. Like that, his bottom appears very round and very white, and his opening is quite loose from what we were just doing.

"Sherlock?"

I shake my head, and without thought, come up on my knees and scoot forward, until I am about to breech him again. I swallow, and just as slowly as the first time, pierce him with my member. 

The second time is equally better — those sensations do not seem to be diminishing. There is something even more exciting in how I naturally place my hands at his waist, for a better grip. Fornication is much more interesting than usual coitus, I am sure of it now — not that I ever had any qualms about it, not since I have been in his mouth. Whatever instance there is, if there is one, must be quite boring to forbid us such pleasures in life.

But here, like that, looming over John, everything feels worse: I am now too aware that his pleasure is in my hands, as he submits to me this way. More than that, I cannot help but envision what this must look like to an exterior eye, us, joined like that, like… _animals_.

"Sherlock," John groans under me.

"John…" I say, and he can hear the hesitation in my voice. 

"Just… close your eyes, and stop thinking. I promise it will get better." 

Maybe so, but I cannot simply shut my mind when I wish to. I do try to obey him, and close my eyes, and start to thrust against him. Positioned like that, the sounds of our lovemaking are even worse, and my interest is slowly fading away. 

"John," I say, letting my forehead down against his shoulder. "I am sorry." 

He chuckles tenderly, and dislodges himself away from me, before embracing me, his arms around my shoulders. "Do you not like it?" he asks, peppering my face with kisses. 

He is not as stiff as he was earlier, and I cannot help but notice how that is my fault. 

"I like the first one we tried," I admit, "but I fear I liked it too much." 

John gives me a look, and I know both of us are thinking about Miss Harry's words. Yet instead of berating me, he brings my whole body down to the bed as he presses a kiss to my sealed lips.

He intertwines our legs and I feel his fingers drawing circles in my back, and I do wonder if that means we are done for the night.

"Sherlock," John whispers, soon enough, his deep-blue eyes grey on me, in the darkness of the room. "Do you remember the dream you told me about? The one where we were together, after riding that day?"

I hum. His free hand travels down between my legs, and I press my hips up. If he wants to rekindle my interest this way, I shall not stop him. 

"Close your eyes, my love. Do you remember how we were, together? How I was on top of you? How good it felt?"

"Yes," I pant, as he keeps caressing me through his words. 

A grin grows on his face. "I want to try something else." 

"John, do you not think that—" 

"Do you trust me?" 

"Of course, but—" 

He does not let me finish, before he rolls me on my back, and wraps his fingers around the part of me he had been touching. It takes me a moment to understand what John is up too, but when he positions himself, legs spread, over my member, I feel like my heart has jumped in my throat. 

I pierce through him for the third time this evening, and I have to admit that this one is the best. 

John slowly lowers himself onto me, and I would be afraid to spill too early for this is quite the loveliest thing, if I weren't so concentrated on watching his face, his body, his own arousal standing proudly between his legs.

"Good?" he asks, just as his bottom has reached my hips. 

I nod, wordless, which makes him smile. It is so much better this way — I can see all of him, and it does not seem like this is about me anymore. 

Slowly, what had once been a dream transforms into reality as John starts to move… exactly like he was riding that horse. 

I bite on my lower lip to refrain from making horrid sounds as I let John take control. He is discovering it too; no one has been inside him but me, yet he already seems to know what he likes best, rolling his head back as my name is on his lips. 

There is definitely something animal about this, something raw, that excites me — this time, there is no shame, just pure pleasure, as John bounces in my lap and manages to make love to me from our reversed positions.

Soon enough, I am panting, not minding the noises coming out of my throat, and when I see John's hand moving to grab himself, I cannot help but thrust up and spill in him, again, and again, and _again_.

It might be minutes or hours later, but his body is pressed against mine, the stickiness of John's seed spread between our bodies, his lips warm on my neck, my jaw, my cheeks. 

" _John_." 

He chuckles. "I know, I know. You liked it."

I hum. "Let's sleep, now," I say, as he gathers me in his arms.

This is quite the tiring activity, after all.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the boys settled in, we arrive at the end of this story, with only a short epilogue left. As always, thank you to all for reading and commenting, and to my wonderful wonderful beta Arcwin. <33333


	18. Chapter 18

**Three months later**

_Winter 1816_

My husband, quite outrageously, is about to abandon me yet again.

"But… _John_ ," I say, lying on my front on our bed, as I watch him put on his shirt. 

John rolls his eyes at me, a smile growing on his face. "I do need to get to work, Sherlock, we discussed this already." 

Yes, of course, the matter had been greatly debated all morning, pausing only for the moments when he would roll me over and take great care at debauching me in any possible way.

I look up, chin on my hands, and pout. John chuckles at that, shakes his head, and goes to fasten his cuffs. 

I groan, spread my knees a bit and gently tug at my dressing gown — revealing a bit of skin at the back of my thigh, where I know his eyes set on. I smile, raise my hips, and lazily rub my stiffening prick against the sheets. I know how good my arse looks like this — and John can _never_ resist my arse.

He bites his lower lip, and looks away. " _No_ ," he breathes out. "I know what game you're playing at, and it will not work." 

I crawl forward on the bed, until my shoulders are perched at the very end of it. "Indulge me," I say.

"No. You'll rumple my clothes." 

I extend my hand, tugging at his shirt a bit, where it enters his trousers. "Perhaps, but then you will not have to go to work."

"I have to take a patient from time to time, Sherlock," he reminds me as he bats my hand away. As if he has not said the same thing a hundred times in the past.

"But you taught Wiggins so well…" I tug at him again, until my fingers are close enough to outline his prick through his trousers. Its interest is growing, against John's words. Persuading him will not be hard, although he can sometimes be a stubborn idiot. Oh, but a _lovely_ one he is. 

John hisses at my touch, and cannot help himself but push against my hand. 

I smile, as I undo the buttons separating me from his delightful prick. "Let me…"

"You will make me late…" he sighs, as his prick comes free, stiff and pink, with a moist drop at its very tip. 

"Good thing you own the practice, then." 

On that, I take him in my mouth. 

I hum, content, as I work my tongue on him. I love how he feels in my mouth; the texture, the heaviness of his arousal, down to the bitter taste. His hand lands in my curls and pet the hair away from my face, to get a better view. The angle is a bit awkward, but at least the bed is high enough for me to be at the right height. 

I toy with him for a few minutes, as only I know how, pressing my tongue in the right places as often as possible, but my rhythm is deliberately slow — this is only the beginning of what I had in mind. 

" _S_ _herlock_ ," he mumbles, a slight reprisal at making him late (once again…), which means nothing in his arousal. 

I let go of him at his words, which earns me a groan. There, not so keen on going out at once, is he now?

"Sit down," I order him.

When I see him hesitating, I stand up, and push him on the bed myself, before climbing on his lap, my knees on each side of him. 

I am naked but for the dressing gown, of course — a ridiculously expensive piece of dark green velvet John gifted me, attached to the side so it conceals all of me even when most aroused — but his clothed thighs against my bare arse make my prick twitch.

I wrap my arms around John's shoulders, and lean in to kiss him. "I can be your patient for the day, Dr Holmes," I whisper.

It makes John laugh: we usually do not indulge in such games, because neither of us can keep face for more than a few minutes. "I believe you to be in excellent health, Mr Watson," he says, nibbling nonetheless at my neck, just underneath my jaw.

No, not a game we play very often… Our names, though, are a constant subject to such teasing. 

"Me? Of excellent health, Dr Holmes? When I have this most unusual growth bothering me so?" 

I bring his hand to the front of my gown, for his fingers to trace the outline of my hardening prick. 

"I assure you, Mr Watson," John says, his hand coming back to seize the side of my face, "that such a reaction is an entirely natural phenomenon. Do you not know about it?" he adds, raising an eyebrow. 

I snort. The naive, innocent man I once was is long gone by now, and it has become a subject of our common amusement. It had not happened overnight, of course, but John's patience and his extensive experience have slowly overcome my initial hesitations. Not a day has passed without us sharing a bed (all right, maybe once or twice when working on more difficult cases), and I soon discovered that sex is yet another matter where practice makes perfect. 

I glance at John from underneath my eyelashes, in an innocent look that I have perfected to induce a certain reaction from him. "Can you make it go away? Dr Watson? _Please_?"

I arch my back in order for my prick to press against him, brushing against his own, proudly erect between the flaps of his trousers. John's hands fly to my waist, my arse, pulling me forward. 

"Dear God, I've created a monster," he breathes out, laughing, between two heated kisses. 

I groan and rub against him, John's hands squeezing my arsecheeks, sending shivers down my spine. My thoughts overflow with different possibilities, trying to find the best solution in which his clothing stays safe from ripping, crumpling, splatters, and everything else that might happen. We could take ourselves in each other's mouths, of course, but we already did it this morning, after which he had planted his face between my arsecheeks and made me cry for release. I could take him, but that would quickly become messy. In any case, I had him on his knees in the middle of the living room two days ago, after the conclusion of our latest case. We caused quite the raucous and even Mrs Hudson, usually unperturbed, had to kick her broom at her ceiling to ask us to keep it down. Which we ignored anyway. No, today I want something different, and since I am still wet and open from earlier…

I want his prick. 

"I want your prick," I say.

John's mouth falls half-open. "Sherlock—" he protests, but I cut him off, a hand on his chest, pushing him down to the bed.

"Don't worry, I will make sure you will still look perfectly suitable for work by the end of it. Let's make it a challenge."

I scoot forward until his prick disappears under my dressing gown, and trap it between both our bodies.

"Fuck," he breathes out.

I swallow. That word, coming from John's mouth, still has an effect on me, not that I know why. Maybe there are still things that cannot be explained.

"Do pass me the oil, John," I say. He gives me a look, and I roll my eyes. "I will be _very_ careful. Now, if you please…" 

He twists himself to grab at the bottle of oil standing on the closest nightstand, and I make a quick use of it, burrowing my hand under my gown and coating his prick with it, in two— three— long strokes. I toss the bottle aside and wrap my hand around him, making him hiss. I blindly try to align myself over him, and miss a few times. 

"Just—" John starts. 

" _There_ ," I say, as I feel the head of his prick against me.

The moment he breaches me, as always, is one of the sweetest feelings I have come to experience in my life. I bite on my lower lip as John stills, careful not to thrust up as his hands land on my waist. 

I do not take too much time — or he will berate me for making him more late than is acceptable — and soon enough, I am fully seated on his lap, his prick heavenly inside me. 

John's fingers travel down and try to untie the front of my gown, but I bat his hand away. 

"I want to see," he grumbles. 

"Oh, _now_ you are indulging."

"You bad, bad man," he says, with a chuckle. "What was that line about obeying me, again, Mr Watson?" 

"You should know, for you pronounced the same words as I did, Dr Holmes." 

He smiles, and brings my hand to his lips, kissing my palm. I watch, enthralled, until he looks up and our eyes meet. 

Whatever moment this was, it is long gone when John lifts his hips up, trying to press into me. "Are you going to move anytime soon, or should I come back after tea?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Dear Lord, did you say you are in a hurry? I must have missed that."

He groans, and presses his fingers to the outline of my prick, caressing it until he reaches the spot where my arousal has wetted the fabric.

"You know I could throw you on this bed and have my way with you, right now," John says. 

Oh, _do I know_. I close my eyes, for an instant, I imagine him throwing me on my front and mounting me… No, another time. I am quite content with our respective positions at the moment. 

"I thought we were being careful of your clothing," I say, eyes still closed, as I finally raise on my knees, before sliding back down on him. 

"Fuck." 

" _Yes._ " 

We weave our hands together as I ride him slowly, just like he did on our first day at Baker Street. It is an act I have come to love, eager to show off for him, to witness the look in his eyes as he sees me bare and [offering], a hunger in his gaze that has not diminished since the first days of our marriage. I do not think it ever will. I myself shall never tire of his body, of his love, of the places where soldier and doctor meet.

I open my eyes again to his concentrated features, to his heaving chest, to his bulging arms.

"You wish to see?" 

"Yes," he breathes out, "please." 

Without stopping the roll of my hips, I undo the knot at the side of my gown, and let it fall open.

"Oh, God," John says, and thrusts up, hard enough for the gown to fall off my shoulders and pool around my elbows. 

"Not quite," I chuckle.

Yet it does seem that John has just seen God, from the way he looks at me, his eyes travelling over my body, from my bare shoulders, to my chest, to my glistening prick, to the place where we are joined, and then back to my waist, perfectly outlined with the help of a corset John had no idea I was wearing.

"When— did you—" 

"When you were bathing," I say. I had gone downstairs to see Jack outside for his morning business, when I asked the maid to help me with the laces. I was, at the time, wearing trousers, of course. 

"Fuck," John repeats, the push of his hips becoming insistent.

I bend down to kiss him, leaving him more space to take control of our lovemaking, as he wraps his arms around my middle, plants his feet on the mattress, and pushes into me at a punishing rhythm. Soon enough, he is hitting my sweet spot with an accuracy that has everything to do with knowing every single inch of my body, leaving me moaning in his mouth. The room fills with the sound of rumpling clothes, of fingernails dragging across tensed fabric. It fills with heat that has nothing to do with the fire dying away in the fireplace, mist growing on the inside of the windows. 

This is the closest we can ever be to one another, and it feels like never enough, yet overwhelming at once. 

"John," I pant in his mouth, heat coiling in my lower belly. 

I grab my prick, and start pulling at it. I close my eyes, to better feel how hard John is well— _fucking_ me, his thrust growing more and more pressing and incoherent at once.

" _Sherlock_ ," he says, half a plead, half a warning, as he tugs on my hair, smearing his mouth over mine.

"Oh, _John_ —" 

I cry out as I spill, whatever rational thought remaining in my head reminding me to wrap my prick in my dressing gown to avoid the mess. Time seems to stop as John buries himself in me, pulsing and pulsing, releasing his want and his need so deeply that I can nearly taste it on the back of my tongue. Or maybe that's from when he was in my mouth, I tell myself, feeling a blissful smile growing on my face. 

John lets go of me once he is done, his hands coming to rub at his face, and I sit back up. "Pass me the handkerchief?" I ask him, and he blindly grabs at the white piece of fabric on the nightstand. 

I arrange the dressing gown back onto the sides of my body, and just as I am about to climb off his lap, he catches his thumb under my softening prick, where a droplet of my release was threatening to spill on his shirt. He gathers it with his thumb, and brings it to his mouth, his eyes on me. 

"Dear Lord, I will never make you leave this room," I say, and my words make him laugh. 

I rise on my knees, wrapping the handkerchief around the base of his prick, and stroke up as I slide off him. "See? Not a single drop spilled."

As a sole answer, John hums. 

I gently dry him the best as I can, before I stuff him back inside his trousers and button them up. Just as I am about to declare him ready for work, he grabs my arms and tugs me downwards on the bed with him. 

"John!" I… well, _not_ squeal, but nearly. "Your clothes," I say, since we are pressed front-to-front. 

"Damn my clothes," he grumbles, and presses his lips to mine. 

I hum into the kiss, not about to argue now. We spend the next few minutes with our limbs intertwined, as John lasciviously unties the back of my corset. It feels somehow different, lying like that with him, naked when he is fully clothed. He seems more… possessive of me, this way. I have to admit that I quite like it. 

"Now, I am definitely late," John says, after a while, and excerpts himself from my arms. 

I roll on my back, a smile on my face, as I watch him walk into the bathroom, only to walk out of it a few moments later, his hair wet and slicked back, a cloth in his hand. 

"Damn," he repeats, as he lifts his right foot to the bed and applies the cloth on his trousers, near his hip, where I have stained it. He grumbles something I do not catch, and makes quick work of his waistcoat and jacket. 

He pockets his watch, and glances at me. "How do I look?" 

I consider the place where his hair does not sit quite naturally, the stain on his trousers, the pink of his lips and cheeks. "Post-coital, most definitely." 

He rolls his eyes at me. "Well, that will have to do for now." He walks over to the side of the bed, and leans in to kiss me, as I catch him by the lapels of his jacket. "You have a client coming later today, my love?"

I hum. "Yes, a certain Miss Smith." 

"Do let me know if the case turns out to be worth pursuing." And he shall run back to Baker Street as quickly as he can, I know.

"I doubt it," I say, "going by the size of her handwriting." 

John chuckles, kisses me again, and bids me goodbye. 

I roll on my back again, hearing his footsteps down the seventeen steps and the door closing behind him. With a smile on my face, I let the sunshine seeping through the windows warm my content body as my thoughts take me far away. 

John is gone for now, but he will be back soon after the sun will have set. Even earlier, if Miss Smith's case turns out to be interesting, which might still happen. In the meantime, I will get out of bed, get dressed, take Jack outside for his morning walk, engage in a bit of conversation with Mrs Hudson, come back up to read today's newspaper and file away the most relevant articles, and in time, berate a client for being elusive and not getting to the point fast enough, tell her I cannot possibly help her with her familial situation, and wait for John to come back home. Or, perhaps, I will sit back down as Miss Smith will be about to leave, and I will ask her the one question that will put everything in place in my head. I will jump from my seat and call for John, who will come at once, even if inconvenient, and we will spend the evening running around the wondrous maze that is London, solving the case before the strike of midnight, only to return in our shared quarters and slide back into bed, where we belong, by the time the first light of the morning pierces through the sky.

As thoughts of what the future holds amuse my mind, I cannot help but think back to everything that brought us here, to every effort made, every word spoken, every word written, every promise made, broken and kept. And as I rise to my feet, dressing gown back on my shoulders, to answer the call of the unruly pup grating at my door, I realize at once that nothing in this marriage, was, after all, a matter of chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they grew up, and lived happily, happily ever after, I can promise you that. <3
> 
> Biggest thanks to my wonderful beta Arcwin, without which my works would not be nearly as good. Check out her own AO3 for many amazing, amazing fics! <33333
> 
> And finally, I want to thank every single one of you who has been following this story, kudoing and commenting along. Thank you for trusting me, even in the darkest moments. ;) This has been my longest work to date and you cannot know how motivating comments are during the long process that is editing and posting a work! Thank you so much, and happy holidays to all, if you are celebrating. <333333
> 
> You can find me on twitter under the name @wntt_aboutSH, for updates on future fics!


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